


Strata

by manhattan



Series: Layers [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Cultural Differences, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Fix-It of Sorts, Gap Filler, Hawke is a Bad Influence, Headcanon, Lots of Glancing and Staring, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mages and Templars, Male-Female Friendship, POV Male Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Retcon, Run-On Sentences, Slice of Life, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reforming an ancient military organization is hard enough when you’re still reeling in from a chaotic past. </p><p>Between withdrawal and war, the last thing Cullen needs is to fall in love with his superior – so of course that’s what would happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Herald

**Author's Note:**

> If you romance Cullen as Lavellan, he says “he hadn’t considered” the fact that the Inquisitor is Dalish. Like, _really,_ Bioware? Really? Considering Inquisitor Lavellan is both his boss and a non-human in a delicate position of power, I find that hard to believe.
> 
> So of course I had to at least try and write a more believable approach to their relationship – because I'm self-indulgent shipping trash, because DA:I could've been so much better, and because I really needed to get it out of my system. The tags will be updated with every chapter, to avoid spoiling the story; I'm not sure about the rating, yet. The fic is unbeta'ed, but frequently revised.
> 
> I really, really hope it delivers, because I've become _way_ too invested in this stupid fic.

They found her passed out and glowing, a rift seaming itself behind her.

 _The Fade was so loud when she fell_ , said one of the mages in the recovery groups. Then he quieted down, seemed to look confused by his own words. Cullen was no mage, couldn’t really understand, but the other mages remained just as silent, shuffling their feet instead of explaining.

Cassandra didn’t care about how loud the Fade had or hadn’t been, her eyes still pink around the edges. She was on her feet immediately, ready to fight, or maim, or destroy, and Cullen felt his spine straighten in – in something. Not a thrill, nor even surprise, but – something, as if the world had tilted. Leliana looked at him then, like she'd felt it too. Cassandra, always willing to take the first step, did not wait around to feel awed, the determination in her loud like the wail of a trebuchet as she made her way down to the holding cells.

Cullen’s steps were soft in comparison and, for a moment, he felt small. The next, it was gone, just him and Leliana and a darkened hallway. The door in the distance was a square of white light and whistling winds. Blinding, almost.

* * *

“Is it killing her?” Cassandra asked, leaning against the door jamb. Her face was flushed, sweaty, and she was panting with exertion. The air still smelled of smoke, of sulfur. How many demons had she killed? She did not even put her sword away as she talked.

The elf with the mark slept through it all, the green in her hand like a nightlight. Cullen, the only former ex-Templar around for miles, had been asked by the cranky healer to keep watch. He had declined, of course, for there was a war to be fought and he _needed_ to be there for his troops. Cassandra and Leliana both had guilt-tripped him into accepting: he was the only one who knew how to dampen magic apart from Cassandra, and the woman wouldn’t—couldn’t stand by. Cullen didn’t want to, either, but Cassandra was grieving, and he knew what that felt like. So he sat down, shoulders aching, joints stiff. Their reinforcements wouldn’t take long to arrive, he hoped.

“Well, this, uh, this _mark_ – whatever it is, it’s getting larger, along with the uh, Breach,” Adan said, from his place beside the bed. He did not look happy. “Slowly, yes, but I wouldn’t wait around to see how it turns out. The elven apostate you brought in earlier theorized the spreading might stop if we close the hole in the sky. As you might guess, that’s not really my area of expertise. For now, she’s just feverish and hallucinating.”

“She had better wake up soon; there is much she needs to explain,” Cassandra replied, her eyes narrowed to slits, full to the brim of things unsaid. The blood on her sword was black and thick, and dripping onto the wooden floor. Cullen had seen that sight too many times. “If she’s the culprit, Commander—“

“Ahem! If you _must_ prattle on, do so outside,” Adan cut in. Cullen and Cassandra turned, surprised, found him glaring daggers. The woman under his hands was sleeping fitfully, teeth grit and left hand tight around the sheets. She glowed green, sickly or vibrant, one of either. Cullen averted his gaze, stared out the nearest window, and met that same twisted shade in the clouds.

“I – yes, I understand. There’s much to be done,” Cassandra said, straightening her back. “I will keep you updated.”

“Please do,” he replied, still looking at the sky.

* * *

Cullen met her on the battlefield. He was disappointed by her distance, by her defensiveness, and did not even stop to wonder what he’d have done in her position. He was on the right side; she wasn’t, yet.

That was all there was to it.

* * *

“A Dalish, and a mage,” said Leliana, and for once her soft voice was devoid of implications. That in itself gave her away, Cullen thought, analyzing the rest of the room like a battlefield.

“She has agreed to help,” Josephine countered, “which is more than we’d expected at first.”

Josephine was defenseless, diplomatic, and concerned, while Leliana’s crossed arms protected her flank, allowed her to arm herself if needed be. He looked out the window, briefly queasy, and met with the valley, aflame and loud with otherworldly screams. Cullen had to sigh at that, running a hand across his forehead.

Leliana’s own sigh was half-scoffed: “I suppose you’re right. It _could_ have been far worse. At least she’s not Qunari—a Dalish Keeper is easier to appease than an irate Arishok.”

He thought of Kirkwall then, and his face must’ve shifted, because Leliana very pointedly did not look at him. He almost thanked her for it.

“Qunari or Dalish or human, it matters not – considering what the people are calling her, we’re going to have a lot of people against us either way. Frankly, I only hope Lady Pentaghast doesn’t, well—scare her off. She can be quite intense, at times,” Josephine replied, sighing as she set down her writing board. Cullen half-expected to see her quill fly away in the wind any time soon, but didn’t feel like pointing it out. He didn’t wish to draw attention – not when it would end up in –

“Cullen, anything to add?” Leliana asked. He tore his gaze away from the mountains, congratulated himself on not stuttering.

“Nothing that hasn’t been previously addressed.” He straightened his back, took a final breath, and looked at her from up above. Let it not be said he was a bad strategist.

“Very well,” was what her mouth said, soft like a well-worn grip. _You’re a bad liar_ , was what her cutting gaze said, a blade trying to nick.

* * *

Lavellan nodded at him whenever she returned to Haven.

It didn’t warm him up inside like he’d expected. Maybe because her face was always pinched, her eyebrows always frowned. Like a puzzled predator, or maybe like a pensive prey. Cullen always nodded back, just to acknowledge her, and thought of the green of trees, of branches adorned with thorns. There was so much he didn’t know about her, so much Leliana’s reports would never cover. The thought that he planned alongside her was baffling. The thought they were dependent on her for the Inquisition’s success even _more_. She had been a prisoner first, a religious figure later, and now she was a colleague, or a partner, or –

“If you’re truly trying to help,” was what she’d said, suspicion and disbelief buried beneath stoicism.

She was something, at least. She was something.

* * *

Val Royeaux saw her return with a blond thief and a haughty mage, but empty-handed of alliances. Leliana had reports on the two women as soon as he thought to ask about them, four more on Seeker Lucius, and a entire case on Empress Celene alone.

“For later,” she explained, removing the tome out of his hands and replacing it with information on Madame de Fer. Lelina’s handwriting was thin, slim, sharp. Almost like his, only neater. “She is a clever one, Commander. Despite volunteering for the front lines, don’t think she won’t influence our decisions.”

“She most certainly will try,” Josephine said, sipping at her tea. “But I’d rather have Madame Vivienne on our side than against us.”

“Well, yes, the Herald seems to believe her battle skills are adequate enough to help,” Cullen began. “But I believe we should search for someone sturdier – Lavellan herself is a mage, she should focus on physical strength for now. Cassandra is doubtlessly satisfied with being the only warrior in the group, but when the time for a real fight comes—“ he let the words hang.

“She will take it head on anyway, and she will most likely succeed,” Leliana completed. “But yes,” she sighed, “I see your point, Commander. What would you recommend?”

“Another warrior, of course. Our rogues have been increased by one since Sera’s arrival,” he couldn’t completely hide the discomfort in knowing they were harboring a petty criminal; Josephine, conversely, was already used to smiling behind teacups, “which means we no longer risk exhausting Varric. We also have two mages apart from the Herald, but no warriors apart from Cassandra. The Inquisitor's entourage cannot be so fragile.”

“Two warriors, then?” Leliana was browsing through Josephine’s bookshelves now, frowning. “We’ve had a mercenary company approach us recently, if I’m not mistaken. The Bull’s Chargers – professional, get the job done, and, most importantly, not too expensive.”

“Why didn’t I hear of this?” He frowned, getting antsy.

“They bypassed us; instead of asking us, they personally approached the Herald. I hear their intention was for the Herald to use their leader—the Iron Bull—as a bodyguard on the field. The perfect solution, no?”

Cullen nodded, though he had the feeling Leliana wasn’t telling him something. Josephine sipped at her tea again, her expression light. He rolled his eyes, couldn’t keep up a straight face.

“Alright, what’s the problem with the Bull’s Chargers?” Cullen asked impatiently, upon noticing the look the two women traded. Josephine dissolved in giggles then, hiding her face behind her hand, while Leliana only offered a mysterious smile.

“None, really, unless you’re not fond of Qunari spies,” Leliana said, finding the scrolls she’d been searching for. “Here, the information I’ve gathered. The Bull has been extremely forthcoming, which is why I’d like to work with him. If we play our cards right, we might be able to secure a Qunari alliance. The information trade was offered by the Bull, as well.”

Cullen widened his eyes at the thought, holding the files in his hands.

“Yes, Commander,” Josephine smiled, “we had the same reaction.”

“Well, if – you think this is a good idea, I won’t object,” he replied. “What of Warden Blackwall? Are there any news? I’d prefer if we had a – I, that is—I hadn't meant—“

“A human? Yes,” Leliana sighed, crossing her arms, “so would I. He’s made it clear he greatly enjoys dragon-hunting and dismembering Venatori, but such hobbies are best left for the wilderness. And there are certain activities that aren’t befitting a Ben-Hassrath. We will need someone more … subtle, eventually.”

“I agree,” Cullen replied. “However, Warden Blackwall is simply one man, and he is a known lone wolf – he’ll be considerably harder to track down, especially in the Fereldan Hinterlands.”

“Is the fighting still ongoing?”

“In the hills, mostly – the apostates and the rebel Templars have realized they had better stray far from the Inquisition’s banners, if they wish to live another day.” Leliana sounded almost proud. If it were anyone else, he would’ve smirked, made a joke. “Despite the Herald’s insistence in setting up camps, our network of communication is still feeble at best. Sending out birds would result in nothing but an arrow through their chests and our information being read.”

“I’ll talk to the Herald, then,” Cullen said, gathering himself up to leave. The Bull’s report nestled against his hip, he nodded at them. “Keep me updated on Warden Blackwall’s position, would you?”

“Of course, Commander,” they said, as one, and Cullen felt a stab of suspicion, but he didn’t stick around to think, walking out with purposeful steps and a working mind.

* * *

The Chantry was cold and quiet by the time Lavellan arrived, frosty and damp from trudging through the snowstorm. If he focused, he could hear Mother Giselle’s calming voice from the other side of the door, but he didn’t. Not on her, at least, but on the argument brewing inside the War Room. Lavellan had been silent from the very start and, while that bothered him, it wasn’t enough to distract him from the fact he was fighting a losing battle.

“I respectfully disagree,” Leliana shot back, arms crossed. Cullen’s hands were fisted, glued to the table. “The mages need our support – and a modicum of control. Grand Enchanter Fiona herself has approached us. We cannot abandon them, especially after she’s offered us an alliance.”

“Because—of course—you would know what mages need?” he replied, thinking of glass vials and liquid satisfaction. Thinking of screaming, and electricity, and the stench of death. He turned to Lavellan, making sure she knew he wanted this, really wanted this. It wasn’t supposed to be about him; but, at the same time, it was. “The people _trust_ the Templars – “

“Not after their defection from the Chantry,” Josephine cut in, an apologetic look on her face. Cullen seethed in silence, his gloves taut and stretched. “Val Royeaux is still in shock over the Lord Seeker’s decision.”

“Surely you’d pick a Templar over a mage, if it came to that,” he shot back, without thinking, and the shadow in Lavellan’s jaw inched just so.

“That’s enough,” she said, like a Keeper to the rest of a bickering clan. But her eyes were on the war table, avoiding the three of them instead of playing the rest of the confident part. “You must reach a decision soon. Right now, arguing over possibilities is just a waste of time. We have none, after all.”

They all stilled.

He’d expected her to decide for them, for some reason, and then hated himself for it. She wasn’t anything to them but an ideal, and a way to close the rifts. He was incredibly thankful that she’d assisted them instead of leaving Thedas to its fate, of course he was. But that didn’t mean he had to put her on a pedestal. _Why_ was he handing her undeserved authority? Did she command so easily that he forgot she was no superior of his?

“I agree with the Herald,” said Cassandra, staring them down with crossed arms.

He leant against the table, too defeated to reply.

It had been a long day; taking care of the refugees was taxing, and Chancellor Roderick had been even more so. Cullen was already worn out, and his impatience dictated that if it were up to Lavellan, she’d dismiss the Templars. It was obvious – he didn’t have enough faith in the Order of now to assume a Dalish mage would reach out to them. Or a normal one, even. How could he, after Kirkwall? After having seen firsthand how corrupt the system had become?

She looked at him then, green eyes penetrating. His blood was warm and rushing across his face, but he stood his ground, staring back. He was a warrior in the end, and he wouldn’t let her win unscathed – his pride would not allow it. But Lavellan was a mage in the end, and mages didn’t fight. Mages controlled the battlefield with an iron grip, and left no space for close confrontations.

(And commanders? Commanders planned out battles in their aching skulls, if only to be ready for them later. Cullen gave himself the excuse it was his job, _expecting_ Lavellan to arm herself against him, and almost heard Leliana snorting.)

* * *

The following morning, he was watching her go anyway. Lavellan was halfway into the bridge when she looked over her shoulder, her short ponytail whipping in the wind, her face pointed upwards and into his. He felt his spine stiffen, but then – she was just fiddling with her hair, and she kept on walking. Out of Haven, out of his sight, into a castle of fragile rebels and desperate allies.

Cullen dove into his reports like a scorched man by a riverside. He only hoisted himself out hours later, when his head had cooled, when the fire had fizzled. His mouth tasted of ash.

* * *

But her return set him ablaze again – how could he have forgotten she was a master of the elements? He had been chilly before, but now his feathers felt more like a noose than a scarf. Cullen did not even think to loosen his collar.

“Do you have a problem with me as well? You clearly still think my decision was the wrong one,” Lavellan said, her voice steady and calm. Once comfortable in its silence, the War Room was now fuzzy with tension. The Herald had waltzed in, Harding had hurriedly excused herself out, and Cullen had closed his hands, then opened them. Then closed them again, this time around the hilt of his sword. His gauntlets clicked, a neat sound at the contact.

“It wasn’t—” He took a breath, somehow willed himself not to grab at his neck. The skin there was hot and tingling.

At least Lavellan would be the only one to witness his embarrassing behavior; Leliana was dealing with the refugees, Josephine with the nobles. Despite Cullen’s best attempts to convince himself that yes, that did make it easier, he remained sadly skeptic.

“I – yes. Yes, I think you made the wrong decision.”

“Because you’re a Templar?” Her voice was clean, devoid of emotion.

“I am no longer – “

“But you _were,_ once, and that’s all it matters,” she cut in, green eyes shooting him down. He fell willingly, quieting at once. “And I’m a mage, and that’s never going to change. I … I might as well deal with it now rather than later, and support magic rather than let it blow up in our faces. You, you're—I just—“

And then she was sighing tiredly, pausing, and he had to grab onto the table to avoid doing anything else. He wanted to –

He wanted her to feel that there was something else out here, not just the Breach, the Rifts, the demons, the darkness hid inside human hearts. The wood of the war table was cold to the touch.

“You didn’t see what I saw there, Commander,” she replied, and her voice was soft like her gaze, as she turned her eyes to the floor. Cullen had seen that empty expression in the mirror so many times. Never on her face. “I … I stand by my decision, and I will always think it was the right one.”

It was true he hadn’t been in Redcliffe, couldn’t even begin to imagine what she was feeling—but he’d heard the details from Leliana, and knew enough that he didn’t want Lavellan to discuss it. Cassandra’s report had been horrible enough—now they knew what would happen if they failed. Would that motivate or ruin them?

Lavellan tucked a stray curl of hair behind a pointed ear, then gave a distracted tug on her ponytail, her gaze cutting from the floor to the door. Suddenly he wanted to apologize, wanted to take it all back.

“Herald,” he tried, before she made good on her silent threat to leave, “I – despite – I hadn’t meant—”

The door clicked open, a timid recruit at the door, and he inhaled the words back into his mouth. He was supposed to have skimmed through Harding’s latest report by now, Cullen remembered, feeling stupid and inadequate and helpless. Lavellan took the opportunity to flee, graceful and stoic as ever.

“Commander,” she said, nodding in goodbye, and then closed the door behind her, leaving him with charts and reports and Cullen’s blood was _thrumming_ in his veins, his fingers tight around the wooden edge.

* * *

The mages arrived in reluctant waves. Haven’s winter had been vicious so far, but now the villagers were cold, too. Cullen felt satisfied by that, as though he’d proved a point.

Not all was distrust and icy demeanor, though; despite Josephine’s earlier complaints, the few Redcliffe Templars trickling along with the rebel mages were enough to sooth the people’s thirst. Cullen was glad for that, glad to see that despite everything there were still men loyal to the Order. Loyal to what it had meant, to what it was supposed to mean.

Lavellan didn’t comment on it until he asked her about it, and even then she was cautious enough to just ask about Templar life, their fighting skills, what sort of supplies they would be needing. Never anything that could be related to him personally. It wasn’t an apology, but it was an opening. Cullen hadn’t expected her to offer either, and was more than eager to take the bait.

“Is this Chantry well-equipped? I understand most Templars are quite religious,” she was asking now. The sun was low, burning into her freckled face, and the shade of her squint reminded him of freshly-cut lawns. “Commander?”

He looked away, blinking, replacing greener grasses with the gray of sparring blades.

“Our Ambassador’s only complaints regard the lack of space, but I’m sure the men will adapt.” Even if the mages went stiff whenever a Templar walked by; even if the Templars’ gazes were hard and stony when they oversaw their charges. He was better off not mentioning that part.

She was too clever, though, seeing right through his worries: “Even with the—?” but stopped then, thinking better of it. It was clear she didn’t know how to discuss the Templar-mage issue with him. Cullen worried about that, regretful that he’d been so adamant before. They were working together; Lavellan couldn’t be afraid to approach him. Then again, had he done anything to disarm the tension?

Clearing his throat, he attempted to take the edge off his voice: “There hasn’t been any scuffling, if that’s what worries you.” That was a lie; Grand Enchanter Fiona had come to him twice already, worried about black eyes and singed Templars. Hopefully, Lavellan wouldn’t know.

He motioned for them to walk, feeling awkward. She stared at his hand, then took a step, falling into place beside him. The senior recruits had been replaced with rookies and mages, their faces unsure as they shuffled around the tents.

“We’ve placed the mages and the Redcliffe recruits here for now, until we manage to clear out more rooms at the Chantry. The Templars are being stationed in the tavern.”

“Shouldn’t they be the ones to stay in the Chantry?” Lavellan asked, face rising to meet his gaze. Despite her stature, there was no one who didn’t notice the pointed ears, the chestnut red of her hair. The recruits tasked with boxing supplies took multiple steps back to let them pass, bending their heads in reverence; Cullen felt invisible when he stood next to her.

“It’s not required – not all Templars take vows, and not all are as pious as the Chantry would have you believe.” His smirk tasted bitter as they stopped, a scout waiting for his signature. “But I’m sure you’ve realized that by now.”

Lavellan didn’t look alarmed by his expression, but the curl of her lip thinned as she thought. It was a pleasurable feeling, knowing she was interested in a subject he held so dear. Or perhaps to simply make her react. It was better to see her face shifting in discomfort than to not see the emotion at all.

He realized then he had never seen her smile.

“I’d read that there were vigils and vows; that sort of thing,” Lavellan admitted, after a beat, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I hadn’t meant—“

A hand flew to the curls over her ear, twisting and playing. She thought she'd been offensive, he realized, and a warm feeling settled on his chest. He averted his gaze, feeling intrusive, and fiddled with his gauntlets.

Cullen always felt like this when she was less than stoic, less than the unapproachable Herald. It was obvious, he supposed, but it was rare for Lavellan not to act like the person Thedas wanted—required—her to be. And yes, Cullen didn’t want to talk to the Herald sometimes, feeling like Lavellan would be enough. But then he was the awkward kid again, not the war veteran (not the man he was striving to be).

People forgot she wasn’t just a walking solution. She was a person. She’d had a past before all this. Had she been happy with her clan? Had she been happy with being a First? Had she grown up climbing trees and wallowing in knee-deep creeks, like he had? Had she been confined to books and scrolls of the arcane instead? There was only so much Leliana could uncover (and even then Cullen would’ve preferred just asking Lavellan).

“No, that is – I, um—there _are_ Templars who take vows,” he cleared his throat, crossed his arms, “though it’s not expected. The more serious recruits may choose to prove their devotion in other ways, but—“

“Such as celibacy?” she asked, frowning once more. Maker, his face was growing warm. What sort of information did the Dalish elves even have on Templars? He hadn’t expected to be roped into this conversational subject. Lavellan stared at him for a beat, then clarified: “I thought – I was under the impression Templars don’t marry. Is that wrong as well?”

“It’s, um, not required. There are those who marry, though there is a process to it, overseen by the Chantry, as well as the Order. There are—more devout Templars, who chose to take chastity votes, but it’s not … Maker’s breath—” He cleared his throat again and stood to full height, as if putting distance between them would make him feel less embarrassed.

“You used to be a Templar. You're also committed and driven. Have you taken those vows? Is it much like a rite of passage? Like my vallaslin?”

Cullen reddened under her expectant gaze, throat tight, but managed to reply: “I—um, no. I’ve taken no such vows.” Then, eager to escape, to calm himself: “There’s a vigil before, but the highest risk you face is falling asleep. You are also given your first … draught of lyrium. I imagine your, um, face markings are considerably more important than a career choice?”

But it wasn’t just that, was it? His fingers dug into the metal of his armor, thinking of curling stairways and blue lips, blue veins. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t discuss something like that with someone like her. She was better off not knowing, anyway. Not yet, not while he was fine.

“My vallaslin? They’re a mark of adulthood,” Lavellan supplied, after a beat. She was only too good at noticing his missteps, even better at not mentioning them. Cullen liked that she respected boundaries, especially unspoken ones. Especially his own. “Mine are the markings of Mythal, the Great Protector.”

“The Great Protector?” His experience with elven gods was limited at best. Had he ever seen a Dalish that hadn’t been captured by a Circle? All the elves at Kinloch Hold had been bare-faced, dressed in robes, wearing shoes with soles. Humans with pointed ears. Humans with pointed ears and tears in their eyes and demons under their skins—

He brought up a hand to his neck, and she blinked. Lavellan’s eyes were on his, her eyebrows jutting upwards, but she answered him anyway:

“She is mother and judge, protector and aggressor. I thought …” She frowned once more, looking away. “At that time, I thought Mythal would be the only god that would be willing to listen.”

Cullen was sure he’d made a face; he’d always been bad at hiding his confusion. But Lavellan didn’t add to the conversation. She offered a polite, tentative smile on her way back to the Chantry, but nothing else.

He didn’t mind. She was someone else when her mouth quirked, when her face softened, and he’d been too surprised to be able to form words, much less full replies.

* * *

The following days found him busy with mages and Templars.

He had forgotten what the Circle mages were like, and couldn’t believe it himself; after a lifetime of duty, had he really grown unused to their sheltered points of view, their frosty attitudes? Kinloch Hold had been lukewarm at best, but Kirkwall had been as glacial as the blue of Meredith’s eyes, and Cullen still felt raw. It didn't help that Vivienne took every chance she got to announce her deep disapproval; Haven was not large enough to keep the loyalist leader and the rebel mages apart.

The Templars knew of his fame – they went to him for advice, as he’d gone to her. The mages, though mostly ignorant of his story, tended to rely on him as well. At times, he forgot, and Commander became Knight-Captain, his office became his quarters. On good days, he didn’t think any of it, just pushed those thoughts out of his mind and did a fine job at keeping a cool head until someone asked about lyrium shipments.

“That’s for Sister Nightingale or Seeker Pentaghast,” he said, and dismissed the two Templars with a jerk of his chin, unwilling to stick around for any other questions. Later, he would grill himself over it, would think that he should’ve done a better job, should’ve swallowed the bile rising up his throat and dealt with the Maker forsaken lyrium shipments himself, but for now he was done.

On his way back to his post, his eyes caught onto a dark-brown ponytail, gleaming redder in the sun.

“But you did a fine job with Master Dennet,” Cassandra was saying, from the other side of a tent. She had a strong, stern voice, and it carried over the recruits’ shouts, over their blades’ screams. “I hadn’t thought he would actually leave the farms to travel with us.”

Lavellan’s was softer, deep, calming. He had to strain to hear.

“You were the one who convinced him,” Lavellan argued, looking on while Cassandra disemboweled a training dummy. She did that so often, he’d had to assign recruits to fill them up again – and it was dull, humiliating work, shoving hay back into the cut seams. But he figured it would be easier to fix them every time than to ask Cassandra to stop. “I was only there to show off the mark.”

“Is that really what you think?” He couldn’t see the Seeker, but he was sure she’d have her eyebrows raised in judging surprise. “Master Dennet is as religious as the common folk, but not even Andraste herself would be able to persuade such a stubborn mule. His presence might have cost us building materials and watchmen, yes, but our mounts will more than compensate for it, I am sure.”

Lavellan might have replied, but he didn’t hear. One of the new recruits was walking in his direction, his arm at an odd angle, and Cullen managed to keep his sigh to himself. Over-eager rookies and their twisted wrists …

“Is that right?” Cassandra said, eventually. “I must disagree. Your position here might be a delicate one, but it is invaluable. Please do not forget you are not working for us, Herald, but with us.”

As he sent the young man to the healer, he couldn’t help but to smile into his pauldrons. Cassandra was often blunt to the point of rudeness, but perhaps a lack of coddling was exactly what Lavellan had been needing, because she didn’t return to the Chantry right away, instead tentatively greeting the Iron Bull.

After the events in Redcliffe, she had become even more withdrawn. She got back from scouting and it was like she didn’t even _see_ them, heading straight for Quartermaster Threnn and the War Room instead of staying to chat. Cullen felt relieved now, watching her chat with the Qunari, and only noticed he was staring when the aforementioned man locked eyes with him.

Cullen blinked, surprised, and looked at Lavellan automatically, found her gazing in his direction as well. _Great_ , he thought, reddening, eyes flitting from hers to his. The Bull only smiled amiably, unashamedly, waving in his direction, but Lavellan looked away, a frown on her brow. _Just great_ , he repeated, crossing his arms and pretending to contemplate anything other than the pink shade of her ears.

In the end, Lavellan didn’t approach him, but she nodded at him as she passed. That was more than enough (so was the disappointment).

* * *

It was after the first hour of searching that Cullen had decided: Haven hadn’t lived up to its name.

In the darkness of the secret route, they had walked in heavy silence, the walking sticks like a metronome. The Herald, murdered by the Elder One; their last hopes buried in the snow. Of course he hadn’t expected her to make it out of the valley (he’d been raised on martyrs and divine apathy after all, and his life had _never_ been easy, so why should he expect otherwise? Why should he expect anything at all?).

But she returned. Falling to her knees and struggling to breathe, yes, but she returned – Cullen thought of Andraste, of the Maker, and then of hope. Her stiff, cold body fell into his arms as Josephine cried out for hot water, as Leliana rose to her feet and looked, for once, at a loss. He did not shed tears of relief like Josephine, but he did not hide his fear like Leliana, either.

He held on tighter instead, taking her to the healers, the mages, praying to the Maker until her condition was stable enough. He hadn’t prayed in years. It still reminded him of –

“We cannot do this without her,” Leliana was saying, sitting by the fire and staring at Mother Giselle’s soothing hands. Lavellan’s face had been cold when he’d held her, her lips dark and purple, her breath pale and tingling with frost. Her mana had been depleted, and with it her energy. The thought of those bright green eyes, how hazy and unseeing they'd been, it was slicing him up inside. “The realization has …”

A pause. Leliana frowned, kicked at the dirt with the heel of her boot. He unlaced his hands, huffed into his gloves.

“Does it bother you?” he found himself asking, from the other side of the crackling wood. “That our foundations are so weak? Like a castle made of cards—”

“Commander,” Josephine chided from the rustic bench, pink eyes wide and hands flat against the puff of her skirts. “To imply that the Herald’s presence wouldn't be enough— _hasn't_ been enough—after all she’s done? I expected more from you!”

He flushed, ducked his head before catching himself. His throat tightened when he thought of using it, and Cullen _hated_ that he still had troubles with his stutter, Maker damn him.

“I doubt that’s what he meant, Josie,” Leliana spoke up, smiling. The bags under her eyes were as dark as the feathers of her birds, but her gaze still felt soft. “Sometimes even I have to wonder if … That is, my faith, I—“ She frowned at the ground, rested an elbow on a knee. “If the Herald hadn’t been here, would we have managed to help at all? She _has_ been invaluable, not only in closing the rifts but in helping the refugees, the villagers, the mages. I – should be glad, but I cannot say it doesn’t bother me.”

She ducked her head, her face, behind the hood of her cloak.

“The Inquisition is Divine Justinia’s heritage, and I…” _And I am leaving it all up to someone who doesn’t even believe in the Maker_ , Cullen completed for her. A Dalish elf, yes, a mage, yes – but a woman who had risen to every occasion and hadn’t yet let them down. Would she ever? Cullen was no betting man, but for her, he was willing to raise the stake.

“Leliana, you forget yourself,” Cassandra’s voice scolded, as she walked into the clearing, back straight and eyes set. Pulling an ‘all in’ without care. “Whether you believe – that is not what the Inquisition is about. The Divine wanted to set things right, and that’s precisely what the Herald’s been doing. Do you think we could’ve escaped without her? Do you think that anyone else could’ve closed the rifts? The Breach?” Her boots clunked as she stopped, looking down at Leliana with eyes that shone too brightly in the firelight. Cullen had held his breath to hear. “Believer or not, she has given away her freedom in order to help us. It speaks highly of her, does it not?”

Leliana didn’t reply. Josephine's eyes were hopping from one woman to the other, the silence overwhelming her.

Cassandra’s expression was unsure, then, but she squared her shoulders, took the challenge head on:

“Justinia wouldn’t have thought twice about using her.”

The gesture Leliana made as she looked up was sharp, the hood thrown back. She was frowning, just so, but the slant of her mouth was determined, not angry. It was rare for Leliana to display her thoughts so easily; Cullen almost averted his gaze before catching himself. This issue was his, too, despite his silence. If he didn’t have anything to add, the very least he could do was to listen. To take mental notes, for later.

“So, you think – ?” Leliana began, a nightingale’s whisper.

“Yes,” Cassandra cut in, nodding once, and made her way to the tents. Mother Giselle was washing her hands, and smiled at the warrior before they entered the closest tent. The Herald’s, he noticed, and wondered if she was already awake.

“Have the two of you finally reached a conclusion?” Josephine asked, straightening in her seat.

“I … believe so,” Leliana replied.

Just like that, Cullen realized. The Herald would finally take the place he’d been reserving for her. That made him feel better about himself, made him feel as if things were normal, now, just because he’d have someone to answer to. Just because he’d be expected to answer to her. Just like that, a weight lifted off his shoulders, off his heart. It wasn't supposed to feel this right.

“It’s not like,” she added, breathless, for once more Sister than Spymaster, “it’s not like I didn’t know it would come to this. She is the only one we can—or should—elect.”

“But you’re at peace with it?” Cullen asked, before he could stop himself.

Leliana reached for her hood, but didn’t hide her expression, this time, just the tips of her ears.

“It remains to be seen,” she said mysteriously, taking up her role again, “but yes. Yes, I think I am at peace.”

Leaning back on his hands, Cullen stared at the sky, and thought: _then so am I._


	2. Inquisitor, Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ... might have underestimated the length of this fic's chapters.

“You aren’t afraid she’ll turn us down?” Josephine whispered to the side, taking notes on the hallway’s decrepit condition. Cullen took a step over the wooden boards, then another.

They’d have to find place to stash all of this – maybe use it as kindling? How cold would Skyhold prove to be? What had it been named after? How had Lavellan found it in the first place? How, exactly, had Solas evenknown about it? So many questions, and not a single answer. Cullen’s thoughts had been a hurricane, the past weeks, and journeying in search of a new headquarters did not really leave time for him to distract himself. The weather _had_ calmed once they’d reached Skyhold, a safe haven during the storm, but he still felt restless.

“I’m more afraid she won’t be able to hold the sword on her own,” was Cassandra’s reply, and Cullen couldn’t help it, he snorted. “I am serious, Commander,” she added, giving him a stern look. “Her very first step as our leader – imagine if she falls off the stairway and dies?”

“Not to mention the damage to her reputation,” Josephine added, looking concerned. "We're already under enough pressure as it is."

“All this, assuming she accepts,” Leliana cut in dryly. “Perhaps she will not enjoy being put on the spot. Perhaps she will decide she’s had enough of us.”

“Because she hasn’t been constantly put on the spot. Right,” he called, sarcastic, as he evaluated the chair. It was dusty, but it looked sturdy. Intimidating, even. They’d be able to use it, he was sure of it. Josephine would probably think of something. “I highly doubt the Herald will leave us hanging, especially after Haven.”

“I’m with the Commander,” Cassandra said. Josephine turned to watch Leliana’s response: a long, suffering sigh. “She deserves the position, and she is not the type of person who would abandon us. This is what I believe.”

Cullen glanced at her, surprised. When had Cassandra gotten so close to Lavellan? Or was that just supposition? He didn’t know Lavellan at all, but he was willing to believe, too. What did that say of him? What did that say of _her_? Cullen sighed, dragged a gloved hand across the top of the chair, and winced at the amount of dust.

“Very well,” Leliana replied, staring out a long, beautiful window. “We shall see what the future holds for us.”

“Apart from the sky, you mean?” Josephine quipped, grinning like she’d been waiting to use the joke. Cullen laughed obligingly, this time – all the way downstairs to the yard.

* * *

No one was very surprised when Lavellan accepted yet another role. Leliana was a terrific actress, after all, and the people seemed to have been expecting it. The only real sign of disbelief came in the form of Cassandra’s raised brow, when Lavellan picked up the ceremonial sword with a single hand.

* * *

Whenever night fell, Haven would become warmer, brighter, a village already used to fighting off winter. Skyhold—despite all—was still cold, unpalatable. A home in name, not yet in heart.

The War Council had long since been dismissed, at Josephine’s request. It was, after all, late at night, _and_ , she’d argued, _the Inquisitor is still recovering, surely she wishes to rest?_ Cullen had agreed, but had opted to stay behind. He did not have available recruits to distract himself with, and he was too keyed up to turn in. The dull headache burrowing into his temples was making sure of that, too, making him want to slide his longsword up a dummy's ribs, making him want to forget about that familiar burn, that liquid magic that took his weight away—

“Do you ever,” Lavellan asked, breaking him out of his thoughts, “do you ever truly think about the world we live in?”

He looked up from Redcliffe, surprised. Lavellan's eyes were northbound, pinning down her clan's last known location like an elven arrow.

In the end, she had chosen to stay behind. Cullen was not vain enough to think she was here because of him – Lavellan did not share the delighted gaze of charmed damsels. Hers was tired, empty, obsessed. If he stared enough, he could see into her, could _feel_ the icy crunch of Haven in her gaze, all those people, _dead_ , because of her, because she’d failed them _all_ —

But, like always, her posture was serious and intent.

"Hm?" Cullen let out, egging her on with a wave of his hand. He was impatient, tonight. For what, he didn't know; perhaps it was the sound of a dying fire that made him want to leave, to turn in for the night. Tomorrow would be a better day—another day that he hadn’t taken lyrium—and this one would be done with.

"Do you wonder why catastrophe strikes our realm so much?" Lavellan went on, looking lost between many thoughts. “Do you ever think about it? About your Maker? About my Creators? About why they’d allow this? You’re a pious man after all, Commander. Surely you wonder why we’ve been abandoned time and time again.”

It hadn’t been a question, but her tone had turned up at the end.

The logs of the fire popped, the warm red of revived ashes casting a glow across her face when she tipped it, looking into the maps again. It was good Leliana was no longer present, Cullen thought vaguely; he was just a man, and Lavellan was beautiful, with a multitude of forests seen and learned inside her eyes. He thought about averting his gaze, and then chose not to. Lavellan’s mouth was still puckered into absentminded whispers, and he did not have enough sense in him to look away while she didn’t notice. Not tonight, at least, while he could feel the mana on her fingers. While he imagined what it would be like to feel its facsimile running under his skin again.

She was still barreling through the ache of the past events, ignoring his fidgeting and his staring. For that, at least, he was thankful.

"The glory, the legends, you—“ a huff, a hand resting on the side of the table. “Humans have no sense of modesty. You always feel this – this _need_ to be better, this need to climb your way up to the top so that you may prove yourselves to others. But in your eagerness to succeed you remain untaught and fragile. You blame a silent god for your failures, but praise yourselves for your victories, and …” She breathed in, something slow and wistful. Her eyes were immobile, looking at the Free Marches, seeing something in them that Cullen would never. “I don’t want to be like that.”

His gaze struck Lake Calenhad in silent reply. He thought of Circle Towers, standing tall and punishing in the horizon, their stones cold to the touch, their hallways damp with quiet fear. A girl he’d loved, disfigured and prideful and _Maker_ , his head hurt, making him (relive the nightmare) bring up a soothing hand to his forehead. His pulse was throbbing, his fingers shaking, and he surreptitiously eased his pauldrons’ clasp, where it rested against his neck. The Inquisitor, lost in her memories, did not notice.

"Shemlen, always so impatient, always wanting more," Lavellan went on, a finger reaching out to touch at a stone effigy. The shadows spilled across the paper then, and Cullen held his breath, watching how they cut into his fingers.

Was it fair for a girl so young to be cast into this? Was it fair for them to throw her to wolves like this? He'd never been truly sure about it, despite Leliana's soothing, convincing words (or because of them). But it was necessary – for Thedas. Lavellan _had_ let them push her into the position, sure, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel guilty whenever she returned with another scar. She was still young, far younger than him, but already so closed-off, so …

Maker, what was wrong with him? He believed in her. Just because he was irritable and impatient didn’t mean he had to second-guess his every decision. Lavellan was fine. She was fine.

"Always so selfish," she finished, dropping the steel mark right above Redcliffe's castle.

Cullen's tone was more impatient than he thought he had felt, as he cut in, anxious to distract himself with the current topic:

"Are you saying that this is about The Maker? That He has abandoned us? The last time I checked, Inquisitor, the Blight was His final gift, not the Breach." Then, for good measure: “Or are you thinking of Corypheus? You believe he speaks the truth? So you do blame human pride?”

Her eyes opened wide as she glanced at him, surprised, the flush on her cheeks blossoming behind the branches of Mythal. Cullen lost his words, but found track of how late it was, how distracted she’d been, and only then understood.

It wasn't that Lavellan had problems in speaking her mind – in fact, she had been clean-cut and forthright since she’d officially joined them, denying their human religion and her bestowed-upon title with a determined shake of her head (but nevertheless allowing the charade for the greater good).

No; Lavellan’s honesty revealed, at its worst, a blade dulled by merciful justice. At its best – well, he could not yet tell. That was the thing about her. She didn’t share an opinion unless asked for it, and even then Cullen sometimes wondered if she was speaking for herself or for her title. _Titles_ , really, Maker, she was so many people at once. Her words always carried meaning and weight, every single one, and perhaps she was already used to it. Perhaps being stoic was how she’d dealt with her previous responsibilities.

Cullen stared at her cheeks, the blush fading as she regained her composure. Mythal’s branches stared back at him, cutting across her face like lightning on a blazing forest.

She was no longer simply a Dalish First – she was the face of a new army, a new age. It was different now. That wasn’t to say Lavellan had become dishonest, but she’d changed. She’d glided from a defensive posture to a supportive stance, her suspicious cautiousness thrown to the wind (or at least simply hidden better).

He liked it better like this.

They all did: Leliana knew how Lavellan did not hold her tongue with Cassandra, guiding her through her doubts but not steering, never steering. Josephine praised how Lavellan listened to Leliana with careful eyes and a thoughtful nod, but always reminded their spymaster that duty was different from darkness. And the two women didn’t mention how Lavellan had taken to informing him of Red Templar updates, stopping by his new office whenever she was back, but Cullen knew they knew.

Just as they all knew how she valued Solas’ company above the rest, the two elves talking in low, long murmurs that extended deep into the evening and up the tower. Cullen didn’t know why he knew so much about the Inquisitor’s free time, or how he’d even known in the first place, but now he did, and—

And what? And _nothing_ , that was what. He couldn’t think about this. Not now, not ever, and so he didn’t, not once.

—and Josephine had asked Leliana to investigate. They couldn’t have her risking her religious status this soon, was the excuse, like he didn’t know the two women gossiped about the staff over Orlesian wines.

But he hadn’t, for once, complained, and Leliana had relieved them both by saying: _they are not being subtle because there is simply nothing to be subtle about._ Lavellan was parched for knowledge, and Solas was an oasis she could at least try to drink from. _She wants only to learn; Solas_ is _an elven mage after all, no?_

Josephine had thanked the Maker for not having to deal with officializing the relationship – imagine the Chantry’s reaction! Cullen, as he was wont to do when they (gossiped) discussed finer politics, had rolled his eyes at them. And, as she smirked, Leliana had rested her gaze on his, purposeful and exposing.

In the present, he flexed his hand, watched the gauntlet shine in the firelight. His hand was bigger than hers, could have covered her fingers and hidden them completely.

"I’m – sorry. I didn't mean—" she started, and didn't finish, the tone in her voice another mystery. Cullen swallowed, watching her frown as she searched for something to say. “What happened at Haven … I guess I was unprepared—I suppose I felt responsible. I ... suppose I still do.”

“It could’ve been worse,” someone said, and seconds passed before he realized it had been him. Lavellan’s eyes caught his, and he took a breath, made an effort to remember himself. “I … morale was – the journey here was hard on us, I won’t lie. But most of our people made it through, and the … the mages were essential in the healing department. And Skyhold is, well, _perfect_ , really. We have more than enough space, even with the arriving pilgrims, and the building itself is sturdy; Corypheus will probably know better than to waste resources on another attack.”

He took another breath, attempted to calm his heart. Lavellan looked so focused. He supposed she always did, but having that gaze on him –

“Morale _was_ low, it’s a fact, but it’s improved greatly since you took on your role as Inquisitor,” he went on, pushing those thoughts out of his mind. “You don’t have to carry the weight of the Inquisition alone; that’s what we’re here for. Please rely on me, as well. I hope we—” Then he blanched, averted his gaze from hers as he deflated. “I—that is, forgive me. I don’t mean to impose.”

The fireplace was sizzling. Cullen brought a hand to his neck, listened to the silence.

“Thank you, Commander,” Lavellan said eventually, and though her smile was a small, tentative thing, it was there, and that was all it mattered. Maker, her face looked so different when she smiled. How long until he was able see that expression every day?

“I—of course, Inquisitor,” he managed. His mind was always a blank at times like these, and his tongue still betrayed him when he was truly flustered. Lavellan took his silence as acceptance, and slinked across the orange darkness of the room after bidding him goodnight. Something close enough to be familiar and supportive, but distant and polite enough to inform him what his place in her life was. He gave his recruits the same tone of voice; he’d know.

Cullen heard the doors drum together, echoing in the quietness of the castle, and stayed until the fireplace was as cold and dark as the rest of the room.

 _It’s fine_ , he would think, hazy hours later, staring up at the slivers of sky that crossed through his broken roof. _It’s fine, because neither of us knows the outcome of this battle, but at least we’re still fighting it._ Or, _I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again._ Or even, _just thinking about it makes me sick—_

Over and over, until dawn had broken.

* * *

While they welcomed pilgrims and new soldiers, the Inquisitor resumed her scouting activities. Lavellan’s first expedition to the Storm Coast had only resulted in the Bull’s Chargers; they had been pressed for allies at the time, the slowly growing Breach compelling them to act first, think later. She’d been gone for three weeks now, and though Cullen had been busier than he’d ever thought possible, he still felt like there was something he was missing.

Perhaps that was why his men had been able to talk him into this.

"Ugh, I know what you’re sayin’," Sera said, taking a hearty swallow of ale and gasping in delight.

Cullen was not particularly fond of hanging out in the tavern, but his soldiers had all but guilt-tripped him into relaxing. _Commander_ , they’d said, awkwardly fiddling with the latches of their gauntlets, _won’t you join us at the tavern for just a while, sir?_ He was starting to suspect Sera had somehow orchestrated it, but it didn’t matter now. It wouldn’t have mattered before, either: he could have glared, packed the request into a drawer and thrown away the key, but his men were still fragile after Haven. Everyone was.

He had acquiesced, if only to appease them; he knew it was the right thing to do. It was his job to make sure his troops were cared for, and Cullen was dedicated enough to try and excel at the morale part, too (even if the reports would pile on, even if he’d have to compensate for hours lost to another form of addiction).

His men were chortling by the fire now, entertaining themselves with some drunken singing; he had abandoned them for a quieter spot at the counter, staring into his glass of lukewarm beer. Sera had sat down moments later, surprised to see the—“workaholic Chantry boy? In a _tavern_? Are you sure you’re allowed in here? Oh, what will the Inquisitor _think?”_ —but nevertheless in good enough spirits to stay and drink a while.

The conversation had evolved towards Lavellan too quickly, too soon. A part of him (one he would never admit to having) suspected Sera was just as appreciative of a pretty face as he was. Another was shameless in admitting Lavellan _was_ interesting, so it _was_ obvious Sera would be interested. He snuffed both of them out, taking a loud, long gulp of beer. It was already too warm, and he shook his head, swallowed it anyway.

"What’re you giving me that look for? I do know what you mean, you know! She has this thing where she thinks she’s better than we are, but at the same time she's scared witless about it. That's what this is about, innit?" Her voice boomed: "The mighty elfy complex, ooh. Well, fine, it’s not all _that_ bad with her, and she does know how to listen to a person, I’ll giv’er that, but sometimes she still mucks it up so bad! Eugh. I swear, she could talk for days about that god stuff—if you let her. Which I don’t."

He frowned, while Sera caught her breath.

Cullen hadn’t thought her particularly religious. She’d mentioned her vallaslin before, but nowadays all they talked about outside of the War Room was either Corypheus or Samson. He wondered if he should’ve asked about it, if he’d missed a cue. Then he remembered Sera was probably expecting a reply, and made haste to answer.

"That's – that’s not what I think about her, exactly," Cullen attempted, wary of being caught talking negatively about – well, the _boss_. Sera only snorted, waving him off. He frowned in reply: he was her advisor, her troops’ leader. He could not undermine her authority any further than he’d already had.

But Leliana was out tonight, overseeing a mission to contact clan Lavellan, and he felt like he would be squandering a chance at honesty. After all, it wasn’t always that he could speak his mind without being afraid that she’d listen in. It wasn't always he could give himself the excuse.

“It’s not. I admire the Inquisitor immensely—as a superior, I mean.”

And yet here he was, swaying on a bar stool and discussing his boss with the least professional member of their group. No, wait – The Bull would’ve been even worse. The Bull would’ve been far more shameless and crude and horrible, because the outfit Lavellan wore at Skyhold had been tailored for her body alone, and why was Cullen thinking about this, anyway? Why in the Void was he even – ?

"It so is! First off, she's a _Dalish_ , which is enough self-righteousness for one person, but no, she’s got to go and be a mage too!" she countered, slamming the mug down. Cullen didn't wince, though his forehead drummed with discomfort. “Then, she was the First to her Keeper, or whatever, which implies, like, _years_ of ‘oh, let us read some books and learn some weird magic and think we know how everything should be because we’re elves and this is what we do with our lives’, innit?”

She shifted her voice’s pitch then, tried to adopt Lavellan’s softer, lower one. It didn’t work, but it was good enough that Cullen knew who she was mimicking.

“Ohh, _I’m_ an apostate mage with years of experience in dooty-tooty magic, but I can also serve as a walking encyclopedia on elves and nature, if you wish!” Then another tone, a manlier one, a curter one – his own. His neck began to feel warm as Sera purred, adopting a seductive expression: “Oh, yes, what a _pleasure_ to know about the fall of that one old-ass god whose name no one can pronounce. Did he skin his knees on his way down to No One Caresville? Please, Inquisitor _, please_ tell me more.”

Cullen stared at Sera while she caught her breath, his ears aflame. He was impressed, despite himself.

“You certainly have … a lot to say about the Inquisitor,” he managed, while Cabot filled Sera’s glass again. A foolish, empty remark; an obvious attempt at deflecting. Sera either didn’t care or didn’t realize.

When Cabot was done, he stared at Cullen, questioning. After a moment of long, arduous contemplation, Cullen shook his head. It wouldn’t do for him to get piss drunk, even if Lavellan and Leliana weren't around, even if his men wanted him to. Cabot merely nodded in reply, saying, “Commander,” in a tone that lingered between respecting and condescending.

"Oy, don’t get me wrong, though – I actually think she's doing an alright job, for what's worth. And ‘sides, it’s been a rough couple of weeks, right, but we’re still alive! Against all these awful, awful odds. What with the archdemons and the burning and the bees and this ale is _great_ , wow!”

Another hearty swig. He wasn’t drunk enough to miss the avoidance, but he’d be a hypocrite if he called her out on it.

“So my point is: she might be too elfy sometimes, but I’d say she balances it out quite well, wouldn’t you say? She doesn’t frolic that much, even. She's no Hero of Ferelden, sure, but then again Cousland _was_ all human and noble-y, right? She got a huge head start. So we should probably let Lavellan stew a bit, see if it turns out right. Dalish prisoners aren’t usually known for being _this_ helpful and polite, though, so I’d wager we’re betting on a winning horse.”

The Hero of Ferelden was the current Queen and an old friend of Leliana's, so Sera should _definitely_ watch her mouth, was what Cullen very much wanted to say – but he didn't, too bewildered by the last part of Sera's rant.

“What do you mean, a prisoner? She is free to do whatever she wants,” Cullen replied, in his business voice. Then he went for a more amused edge: “Or hasn’t the new title tipped you off?”

"What, the Inquisitor? A fancy name, sure, but doesn’t change the fact she’s a prisoner," she said, rolling her eyes. "What, like you didn't notice? She _glows_! And no one else does, so! She’s stuck here until every single riftything is fixed, right? Or until you guys find a way to seal those yourselves. Ain’t that right,” she mimicked Cabot then, “Commander,” and gave him a cheeky salute.

He frowned at her, half taken-aback but half-amused as well; decided to hide his smirk with a sip of his interminable beer. If he gave Sera the impression he had a sense of humor, he would never hear the end of it. Her attempts at dirty jokes were bad enough already.

"Oh, and the next time you wanna discuss elf life, I recommend talking to the bald stick in the mud, yeah? The one who's actually been raised in a self-important and spiritual way or whatever they do to get them to turn out like that?" She hiccupped, set down the empty mug and stared at him very seriously. "It's not like I completely dislike your company, Commander, but if you ever ask me to talk about this – this elfy advice thing again, I'm gonna make you wish you hadn't."

Cullen took a sip of the awful beer, and quietly got the point.

Tomorrow morning would find the youngest recruits sparring just outside her window, however. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

* * *

They weren’t supposed to return for another week, was Cullen’s first panicked thought, upon noticing the mob at the gates. Then he calmed, thought it through, and dismissed Lysette with a distracted nod.

He hadn’t been expecting much out of Lavellan’s second expedition to the Storm Coast. It had been a month since their soldiers had been lost, and the area was inhospitable enough for Cullen to assume the worst. But she was exceptional after all, or she wouldn’t be their Inquisitor: between avenged soldiers, new agents, and information on the Grey Wardens, her voyage had been a complete success – or so Leliana had reported.

She had apparently forgotten to mention the very irate Seeker leading the party.

Cassandra was the first to exit the crowd, sword in her hand and murder in her eyes. Cullen had to hasten his pace to get to her before she climbed the stairway into the main hall, her stride purposeful and ready. The rest of the recruits stared until he made a dismissive gesture, his other hand holding Cassandra by the elbow. A quick glance towards the gates found Lavellan, the boy named Cole, and Warden Blackwall; Cullen didn’t sigh in relief, but only because Cassandra didn’t give him time to.

“Where is Varric,” she hissed, her hand tightening around the grip of her sword. Cullen’s left hand searched for his own, a habit he hadn’t been able to break since Kirkwall.

“What’s this about, Seeker Pentaghast?” The use of her official title would calm her, he hoped. “What’s happened? Why are you back so soon?”

“I will kill him, very slowly,” Cassandra grunted, stealing back her arm from him and almost giving him another facial scar. “And Maker forgive me, I _will_ enjoy doing so.”

“Cassandra,” he tried, in a rushed whisper, this time grabbing at her wrist, “is this the time and place?”

She halted then, thank the Maker, but her eyes narrowed in the main hall’s direction. A second passed. Where was Josephine when you needed her, Cullen thought, frantic, but Cassandra sighed, giving up. The anger escaped her stance, relaxing her wrist, her hand. Cullen released her, watched her slide the sword back into its scabbard, and then motioned towards his office.

“Perhaps later,” Cassandra spat, stomping back downstairs and heading for the tavern. The Templars stepped back to let her pass, giving her a wide berth, and only turned to look at him once she slammed the door shut.

What in the Maker’s name had happened in the Storm Coast? Cullen frowned, and made way for the gates, anxious to find out. Scout Harding was always hard to spot among the rest of the exploration party, but he still tried, wary of interrupting Lavellan’s welcome committee. She always returned full of loot to sell, as well as copious amounts of crafting materials, and the merchants knew better than not to swarm her.

His fears turned out to be unfounded as the woman in question noticed him, and, with a wave of her hand, had him stilling and waiting for an order. It seemed Scout Harding would have to wait.

“Commander, a word?” she called, giving the merchants a curt nod and slipping out of their greedy grasps. The day was bright, the noon sky painful to the eyes. But seeing her in the sun made him wish for larger windows, or maybe another hole on the roof. _Stupid_ , he chided himself, feeling warm in the daylight.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said, nodding, falling into step alongside her. He hoped the surprise wasn’t showing on his face; she hardly ever talked to him outside of his office. “I’m glad to see you unharmed,” he added, as an after-thought, and Lavellan looked over to him, smiled that quiet, small smile of hers. Cullen found himself smiling back, and then felt awkward, looked ahead once more. “Is something the matter?”

“Apart from Cassandra’s outburst, you mean?” Lavellan replied, returning her gaze to the yard as well.

She was in good spirits today. It was rare for her to make jokes, rarer still to hand out smiles so easily. The color of her vallaslin was especially vibrant in the light of day, the same forest shade of her eyes. Did all Dalish pick out their markings like this? Had she thought it would look good, or was the meaning deeper? Had she been the one to pick? Or was the color related to Mythal, and the likeness mere coincidence? Why in the Void couldn’t he bring himself ask her?

“While we were on our way back to Skyhold, we received news that a group of our soldiers has been captured in the Fallow Mire,” she went on, oblivious to his plights, her smile still half-present.

Cullen went cold. Why hadn’t Leliana mentioned anything to him? Or was he the first person Lavellan had told? Communications _had_ been impossible, after all. Concern and pride went to war inside his chest.

“Is that … so. If I might, Inquisitor, you look quite satisfied – that is—“ He let the words hang.

“They’re being kept as valuable hostages, Commander. I expect they will remain alive until I go save them. Is that no reason to look satisfied?” Lavellan replied, cocking her head. Her smile was waning, now; Cullen should’ve just kept his mouth shut. “There’s something I must discuss with Varric first, but I expect to set out in two days. If you would?”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he said automatically, straightening. “I’ll see that we start loading a caravan for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, a hand on a stone railing. These were the stairs that led up to the battlements outside his office, he thought, and paused, unsure. “Is something the matter?” Lavellan said, after a beat, staring at him from two steps above. She was still shorter than him, he noticed, and felt this odd pull in his stomach.

“Would that be all, Inquisitor? I should return to the Templars,” Cullen replied, though he wanted to escort her. Maker, he wanted, and so couldn’t help but to add: “Unless – you require my presence elsewhere?”

Lavellan looked surprised, just a little, but she nodded.

“I was thinking of summoning the council,” she explained, curling her hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure if I’ll have the time, afterwards. Of course, if it’s not a good time for you, I understand – you weren’t expecting me so soon—”

“No,” he interrupted, in a hurry, and felt the sun heating the back of his head. Lavellan’s left hand shifted up the banister at the sound of his voice, her expression inscrutable once more. Cullen was molten in regret, and backtracked without thinking twice: “That is, I meant – I just have to give Officer Lysette some pointers, before I leave the men to their drills. Feel free to go on ahead, Inquisitor. I don’t mean to make you wait.”

Lavellan bit the inside of her cheek, but she nodded, turning on the ball of her foot and climbing up the stairs. Cullen had the distinct feeling he’d missed something, but he filed it away for later. The Templars were all still staring, and any warmth he might’ve been feeling was replaced with a growl and a scowl, as he ordered them back to work.

* * *

It was only after Lavellan had exited the War Room that Cullen allowed himself to act lividly.

“Their leader wants to fight the Inquisitor because he believes she’s been sent by a god,” he repeated, slowly, because there were recruits in the room, and the sight of the advisors fighting was never a pretty one. He gave them a meaningful glance, willed them into collecting the supply lists faster. “And you think sending her off is a good idea?”

“Why not?” Leliana replied, sounding surprised. No wonder she hadn’t informed him – she _agreed_ with the Inquisitor. She _did_ think it was a _good idea_. “You’d rather leave them to die? Like this, we have a chance at survival and influence. The heroism of our Inquisitor plays a crucial role in this game, Commander.”

“This is not a game, Leliana; it’s war. I’d rather we didn’t send off our leader to battle every boastful buffoon who takes hostages,” he shot back, crossing his arms. The recruits shuffled out of the room quickly, struggling with the reports. He waited until the door had clicked closed before continuing. “What of reinforcements? How many men are we expecting to attack? She can’t go with just an exploration party. You risk too much.”

“I do _no_ such thing,” Leliana shot back, in a half-gasp. She must’ve been really angry, he thought, let it show so obviously. “I care about the Inquisitor’s well-being as much as you do, Commander – just because I don’t always show it on my face doesn’t mean—“

She halted, then, regretful, but the damage had been done. Cullen almost staggered back; managed to slink by with a blush and a tight jaw, hands flat against the wood. Josephine stood up then, took brisk steps and gave each of them a stern glance, emulating Cassandra so perfectly Cullen was almost tempted to call her Seeker.

“Esteemed colleagues,” she began, tone like steel, clean but hard, “ordinarily I would recommend a tea break, but I am aware that would be more a punishment to our Commander than a reprieve. As it is, I must simply implore you to act like the professionals you _are_ , instead of bickering like Chantry initiates. What would the Inquisitor say if she heard us arguing like this? Over a decision she clearly believes to be the right one, no less?”

He felt himself flush harder, but didn’t allow his gaze to soften.

“We are _meant_ to argue like this, that’s the whole point,” he replied, but cooled his temper with a sigh, a steaming sword dunked in water. “If we didn’t second-guess the Inquisitor’s choices, we wouldn’t be doing our job. I understand where you’re going with this, Ambassador, I do, but I still think a battalion of men would do the job as effectively, with no risk to the Inquisitor, who, might I remind you, is the only person who can close the rifts—”

“Then you can be the one to explain her why she’s lost another squad,” Leliana shot back. “The men we lost at the Storm Coast could have been saved if we’d gotten there sooner.”

“You don’t believe that,” he scoffed.

“But the Inquisitor does,” Josephine said, nestling her writing pad against her chest. “I … am concerned for her well-being, yes, but I still think she can make her own decisions; if fighting the Avvar folk is what she wishes to do, then I suggest we let her. The Fallow Mire is not a big area, which means Leliana’s men could spread out, take watch. If anything goes wrong—“

“Which almost always happens,” he cut in.

“—we can fall back on them,” Josephine finished.

“Commander,” Leliana tried, exasperated, “Lavellan is no greenhorn. I would’ve assumed you’d have more faith in her skills, considering where she’s brought us.”

His anger’s reservoir emptied out in a sigh, and he leant against the table, staring at the Free Marches.

“I – I do, of course I do,” he managed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I just – so much depends on her specifically, if she _fails_ , Leliana—“ If she dies, he thought, and his jaw clenched.

“This isn’t Haven’s aftermath anymore, Cullen,” Leliana replied, emphasizing each word like he was hard of hearing. “You can’t keep second-guessing forever.”

Cullen thought of a hundred things to say. He kept quiet instead, closed his hands, then opened them; then closed them again, around the handle of his sword.

“What of Hawke’s—um, Serah Hawke’s situation—“ Josephine began, an attempt at diffusing the conversational bomb.

Cullen snorted, a bitter sound.

“No wonder Cassandra lost her temper,” he said under his breath. “What was Varric thinking, sending her that letter?”

“Lost her temper? She _destroyed_ three training dummies in a single afternoon,” Josephine countered, frowning. “Do you even know how much a training dummy that can match the Seeker’s blows _costs_ , Commander? Do you know how many days it takes for a caravan to get here?”

He pretended not to hear, focusing on Leliana. Josephine muttered something in Antivan, then sighed, glancing towards the bard as well.

“It’s likely he assumed Cassandra’s reaction would be softened by the distance, or at the very least by time,” Leliana said after a beat, playing along for now. They were all on edge, he wasn’t socially inept enough to overlook _that._

They were clashing. It wasn’t like they weren’t supposed to argue—they were a council after all—but today it only felt strained, not cooperative.

“Unfortunately,” Leliana went on, frowning at Varric’s letter, “he was wrong; Cassandra is the kind to hold a grudge.”

“Yes, well. I’m sure Varric has learned a valuable lesson,” Josephine replied. “To hide Serah Hawke from Seeker Pentaghast and to survive unscathed is commendable, however. Speaking of which; have you gone to welcome her yet, Commander?” she asked, as if only now realizing he would never partake in any sort of social activities.

Cullen only barely avoided making a face, shaking his head instead.

“I … have been busy,” he said lamely. Josephine rested her free hand on her hip, looking as though she wanted to stab him with her quill. He began building up his excuse: “We’ve only just learned Hawke’s in Skyhold—“

 “Please, Commander,” Leliana cut in, without mercy, “as if a single person inside this castle hasn’t been verified by you and me both. And the Bull, most likely. Serah Hawke’s been here for a week and you haven’t talked to her yet?”

He seethed in silence, then offered a sullen: “She's only been here for four days.”

“Ah, so you admit—“

“I would appreciate if my personal affairs weren’t dissected or discussed at the war table,” Cullen cut in, still feeling flushed. “Or anywhere, ever. Now that _that’s_ done with, I must bid you goodbye. I still need to run some tactics with one of the Hessarian Blades the Inquisitor brought along.”

Leliana narrowed her eyes at him, but Cullen was relaxed under her gaze, daring her to protest. She’d get the maps later, maybe even before midnight, if he managed to ask Lysette to take over the Templars’ training once more. There was a pause, and then she sighed, looked away dismissively.

Cullen felt victorious all the way to his office, where the sight of Hawke (sitting on his _desk_ without a care) proceeded to siphon his happiness like a rift.

“Met your Inquisitor,” she said, like the last time he’d seen her hadn’t been in the wreckage of the Gallows, bloodied and bruised and glowing red like the rest of the yard –

Cullen’s hand grabbed at the door jamb.

“I was expecting – well, I don’t know what I was expecting, but it most certainly wasn’t such a cute, tiny elf! Tell me, Commander, is she always that bossy?”

“Hawke,” was all he could say, stupidly. Had Leliana been responsible for this, or had Hawke simply felt like ignoring his avoidance and making contact? The timing seemed too right—and then he remembered that Lavellan was leaving soon, that of course Hawke would exit with her, and the guilt pierced him like a flaming arrow.

“You look like shit,” she said, abandoning that smile as easily as one did an empty potion flask. Cullen felt like he was barefoot in a room paved with glass. “Like a handsome shit,” she amended, eyebrow raised in an impressed angle, “but shit nonetheless. Working hard as ever, I take it? Or has it – gotten worse?”

 _What has_ , he thought bitterly, still standing by the open door. _Meredith? The Order? The lyrium withdrawal? The war you caused?_ His jaw went tight; Hawke noticed, and averted her gaze, staring at the wooden floor. It was the closest thing to an apology he’d get; Hawke was the sort of person who didn’t offer them so easily. And … Cullen could accept that – from her, at least.

“There’s a lot riding on the Inquisition’s shoulders,” he said, finally regaining control of his body again, closing the door behind him. He made his way to his chair, while Hawke stood and allowed him to pass, before sitting down on his desk again. He bristled at that, but she was staring intently at him, searching for something –

“You really did get prettier,” was the result, slightly sullen. Cullen could _feel_ himself flush as he sat. “I feel kind of cheated, somehow.”

“What did you want to talk about, Hawke?” Cullen said sternly, leaning back and crossing his arms. He wanted to clear his throat, but didn’t, couldn’t show such a weak side.

Her cheeky grin faded into a straighter line, a darker eye color. She crossed her arms and looked out the window, her black hair shining brown in the setting sun. She looked the same, but not at all; the years had sharpened her features into a stricter copy of her mother’s, and her hair was no longer as short. But Hawke was still alluring, still dangerous, the perfect protagonist to Varric’s most personal novel. Some things, Cullen thought, would never change.

“To be honest, I just wanted to know how you were doing after Meredith. After all that happened,” Hawke said boldly, and Cullen had missed it, the thought that someone else knew about Kirkwall. The thought he was not alone. There was always Varric, he supposed, but Varric was different. Varric had replaced it with a book, with facts, instead of remembering how it had felt. Cullen had been too close to Meredith to follow his lead.

Her eyes shifted to his, narrowing above the fullness of her grin. He’d missed Hawke too, just enough to appreciate her sarcasm, her acidity. He hadn't stopped to consider her presence in his life; not since leaving Kirkwall.

“And it would feel strange, don’t you think? Us being in the same building and not talking—nice castle, by the way—or have I overestimated our friendship?”

“I … suppose you’re right,” he offered, letting his arms rest on top of the chair’s, opening his stance. “How have you been faring? I heard news of your escape, when I was still stationed back at Kirkwall. I imagine laying low took considerable effort on your part?”

Hawke snorted, rolling her eyes.

“If you count growing out my hair and opting not to dab a blood mark on my nose as ‘considerable effort’, then yes, maintaining my anonymity was an _extremely_ difficult task.”

Her tone was amused, but Cullen frowned, gave her time. Hawke took a breath, then anchored one hand to his desk.

“Things _were_ … easier, for a while. I didn’t travel alone, and there were pockets of peace here and there. I tried not to fight, to keep out of scuffles, to keep my head down, but sometimes it was unavoidable. I saw Carver from time to time, even—before this whole mess with the Grey Wardens. It was – enough.”

There was a pause. It was clear neither of them wanted to discuss serious matters.

“How is Aveline? Do the two of you still keep in touch?” Cullen asked graciously, while Hawke gathered her thoughts.

“Aveline? Oh, you know her – unmovable, and all. Kirkwall would fall without her, as I’m sure you’re aware.” He was. The City Guard and the Order had never been the best of friends, but Cullen had always seen the Guard-Captain as a beacon of justice in the murky darkness of Kirkwall. “Donnic makes sure she doesn’t overwork herself, too.”

“I’m glad for her,” Cullen replied. “At least someone—“ He cleared his throat, his mind. “Forgive me. I do not mean to dampen the mood. It is good to see you, Hawke, despite my – ah, less than hospitable demeanor.”

“It’s fine.” Hawke smirked at him, then, a warning of what was to come. “I’m interested in knowing more about your Inquisitor, though. The _Herald_ of _Andraste?_ Really?”

“The Inquisitor no longer goes by that title, and should be addressed as ‘Inquisitor’ or ‘milady’, though ‘your Worship’ is also accepted,” was the automatic reply, the one he gave his recruits. Hawke looked endlessly amused, bringing up a hand to cover her grinning mouth.

“Damn,” she whistled, “she’s got you whipped, Chantry boy.”

Cullen’s face went warm again; he almost jumped to his feet, ready to defend Lavellan’s honor as though Hawke had called her a knife-ear. He caught himself in time, though, and only grabbed at the chair’s arms, straightening.

“What? It’s endearing,” Hawke said, frowning. “And it’ll do you good.”

“What are you implying? I have nothing but the upmost respect for the Inquisitor.” His voice was a tad too frantic, his grip on the chair too tight. At least he hadn’t stuttered.

“Right,” she snorted. “Upmost respect for how snug that outfit is, more like. Or do you _always_ stare at those swaying—“

Cullen stood, this time, couldn’t help himself; towered over her with a glare.

“Hawke,” he strained, and she did not look shocked, but it still took her a second to reply.

“Point taken,” Hawke said, mollifying, crossing her arms. Behind her shoulder, the door that led to Leliana’s tower opened, and Lavellan took a step inside the room, then stilled, hand around the knob. She was holding an open report on the other, the pages swaying in the afternoon breeze.

Cullen took a step back, straightening so hard it was a wonder his armor didn’t clang.

“Inquisitor,” he began, flustered, and Hawke rolled her eyes, strode past him with a wave of her hand.

“I apologize. I did not mean to interrupt,” Lavellan said, using her free hand to tuck her hair behind a pointed ear. She was looking at Hawke, that inscrutable expression in place.

“You didn’t, Inquisitor. I was only catching up with the Knight-Captain here,” Hawke said, grinning that cheeky smile of hers. He didn’t like the title, especially not in front of Lavellan, but there was little he could say to Hawke that wouldn’t result in a shocked Inquisitor. “He has some views on uniforms that should definitely be shared.” Then she turned to him, unremorseful: “I’ll see you in the tavern later, Commander? We still have much to talk about.”

Lavellan’s eyes flitted from Hawke’s to his, stilling on his cheeks and ears. How did Hawke expect him to say anything at all, in this situation?

“I can come back later, if you’d prefer,” Lavellan said simply, serious as ever, making sure he knew she was talking to him. Making sure he knew he had an option.

“You’ll spoil him,” was Hawke’s final comment, as she walked out, closing the door behind her. The silence in his office was stifling. For once, he wished he had a recruit stationed here, if only to give him a distraction. Or an excuse to act professional.

“I apologize, Inquisitor,” he managed, eventually, his throat tight. “Hawke is—I, I mean – I’ll make sure she understands the position you’re in – the due respect—“

“That’s fine, Commander,” Lavellan cut in, frowning. “Are you alright?”

He wasn’t sure. While he tried to gather his thoughts, there was an awkward pause. Lavellan was still too close to the door, and he was afraid she would leave, like she always did. So he rushed, tried to fill in the blank, to keep her grounded.

"I – the last couple of days have been … trying." And Hawke was too good at enabling people, disarming them with cutting smiles and scoffs. He wasn't the shy Templar anymore, no longer as repressed and quiet; it would figure Hawke would know how to push his new-found buttons. Lavellan probably knew, from the way she took a breath, her shoulders relaxing. "I apologize for my behavior."

Lavellan studied him, took his stance in. He resisted the urge to tense under her gaze.

"I'm certain you weren’t without cause," she said, and focused on the file in her hands once more. "I meant to discuss the Fallow Mire recovery mission, but I do not mind returning later."

"No – I mean, that would be fine by me," Cullen cut in, straightening his back as though she was inspecting his armor. “What do you wish to discuss? I was under the impression preparations had been concluded.”

“They have. As smoothly as ever, in fact.” Lavellan said, frowning at the parchment. Then she looked at him, rolling them closed. “What I meant to discuss was – of a more personal nature.” The paper crinkled under her fingers. Lavellan did not look away from him. “I have been told you don’t agree with my involvement in this mission.”

 _Ah_ , Cullen thought, hands twitching to close. Had Leliana told her? Or had it been Josephine? Who was he going to argue with after she’d gone?

“I do not,” he said, ducking his head just so. “I believe it’s a risk you shouldn’t take.”

“I see,” Lavellan replied evenly. She was still rooted to the spot, arms’ distance from the door. “If you don’t agree with the way I tackle these issues, Commander, I’d appreciate if you told me. You’re my advisor, after all, and it is your duty to express your dissatisfaction with me.”

Alarm rang inside his head, echoing. He brought a hand to his neck, felt the soothing metal ridges of his gauntlet.

“I’m not – that is – “ he huffed, then frowned. “I’m not dissatisfied,” he said, moving his gaze back to her face. Visual contact was important at times like these, or so Josephine constantly told him.

It was a mistake. Lavellan’s expression was twisted into an offended frown, her jaw set. The bottom of his stomach iced over; he thought of Haven’s lake, white and sparkling at dawn.

“You _are_ dissatisfied, Commander. Enough to lie about it, even. I thought—” she said, and then looked away, expression hard. “Do you think me so inadequate that you would rather – “

“I do not,” Cullen cut in, taking a step in her direction. Lavellan’s eyes went wide, and he regretted, but not enough to move away. “I do _not_ think you’re inadequate, and I hope you don’t assume – I, that is … You are the foundation of the Inquisition. Without you, Inquisitor—” he sighed, hand dropping from his neck to his thigh.

He was getting too emotional, too personal. Leliana would’ve chided him, if she were there. She wasn’t, of course. It was just him and Lavellan in the darkness of his office. Lavellan, full of poise and firm control. What would she think of him, after this display?

“I worry, Inquisitor,” he confessed, finally, and the weight of his armor disappeared. “I worry that you’ll embark on one of your expeditions and never return. I worry that without you, the Inquisition will be rendered helpless. The rifts can't be closed without your mark. All these people’s hardships, all their determination – it’s nothing without your presence to guide them. Do you understand, Inquisitor?”

The shadow under her jaw flinched, but her voice was level.

“I believe I understand it better than you do, Commander. I was there; or have you forgotten?” Lavellan said, and walked over to his desk, setting down the reports. “Don’t mistake the trust I have deposited in my team for imprudence. I am aware of my fragility, and what it affects.” Her hands were flat against the wood. She closed them as she looked at him, standing to full height. “But I _am_ going to save those soldiers. Serah Hawke’s operation is a priority that I understand, but her contact is in no immediate danger, and _surely_ you do not expect me to abandon an Inquisition platoon this easily?”

He was taken aback, mind aimless but anxious to find an explanation. Then he realized there was none – she was right. Leliana and Josephine were, too. He couldn’t remain in what ifs forever, even if they were friendly territory. Even if they had been part of his life for so long.

Lavellan was still waiting for an answer, her arms crossed.

“I … of course. I apologize,” he said, ducking his head in her direction. The back of his neck was warm. “I spoke out of line. I questioned your authority, and undervalued your strategic—”

“Commander,” Lavellan cut in, frowning again,“I don’t want an apology. My authority is _meant_ to be questioned. How can I grow as a leader, otherwise? How can those I lead grow if _I_ don’t?” She exhaled, right hand gripping at her forearm. “But you never bring your concerns to me.”

“Well, I—”

“Have I given you reason to distrust me, Commander?” It was a question with meaning; she even offered a pause. Cullen didn’t answer, just swallowed in dry. “Just because I am a mage and you an ex-Templar doesn’t mean that we can’t work together.”

“What?” he blurted out, blinking. Lavellan’s expression froze – for a second, he saw alarm flit about in the green of her eyes – and then smoothed out into blankness. “You think—? Maker, no! That you’re a mage has nothing to do with – “

With what? He went silent, face burning like the silence they shared.

“Then what has?” Lavellan asked, hands closed. He didn’t know it, himself.

It was the first time he saw her so confrontative, so emotional, so raw. Was this what she was like when she wasn’t being the Inquisitor? Suddenly he was only too aware of the branches on her cheeks, her anchor to a life he knew nothing about.  Her eyebrows curved in realization, her eyes bright, and she brought a hand to her hair again—no, her ear. He went cold all over, awash in anguish.

“Ah,” she said, toneless, “I see.”

“ _No_ ,” Cullen said, firm but frightened of what she’d think. “Inquisitor, the fault is no one’s but my own. I _should_ have gone to you from the start, and – and I apologize for not truly believing in you. I apologize for not being more forthcoming. I – it won’t happen again.” Cullen straightened his back, caught the sight of his lyrium kit, neatly packed into the bookshelf. Then he forced himself to look away, back into her eyes. “You have my word.”

Her poker face was still in place, but Lavellan hadn’t yet fled, and that was a victory. His fingers felt damp inside their gauntlets; he resisted the urge to try and wipe them against his pants. Finally, she dropped her hands, let them rest atop one another.

“I know what you expect of me,” Lavellan murmured, casting her gaze towards his windows. Outside, the wind whistled, but not as loudly as his heart was sounding. “You expect me to be cordial, to forgive you, to say there is no longer an issue between us. I’ve seen our Ambassador do it enough times to know that is how your kind work.”

Then she turned to him again, green eyes dulled by the darkness of his office.

“But I am not human, Commander. I do not need to bow to your social conventions – not at the moment, at least. There _is_ an issue between us, and if we employ your human denial, it will remain unsolved. As such,” an intake of breath, “I will not accept your apology, Commander. Not until you act like I am your leader, and not just your charge.”

Her words cut into him better than any sword had ever.

“With all due respect, Inquisitor,” he attempted, but Lavellan only shook her head.

“I do not mean to say that I don’t understand, Commander,” she went on, voice softening. “You are adjusting. I ... I am, as well. I would be lying if I said I’ve always thought of you as a mere military advisor. As … as an apostate mage, I’ve been conditioned to run at the sight of a Templar. As a Dalish elf, I’ve seen first-hand how humans feel about my brethren, and I still don’t know how to …” She frowned, then, eyes faraway. Then she found her train of thought once more. “It’s – fine. I _understand_. But I would rather accept that apology when you truly mean it.”

There was a silence. He struggled to make sense of her words, but his throat was tight, his pulse fast. He had never known anyone who wielded honesty like she did, who forgave the way she did. He had never known anyone like her.

“I – forgive me,” he said, a little winded, lost between the hallways of his mind, “but I don’t know what to reply.”

Lavellan didn’t smile, but the corners of her lips drew the smallest curve.

“That you wish to is enough,” she said, and turned to his desk, skimmed over the reports. Cullen stared, unable to do anything other than wait for her to act. Lavellan would certainly notice, but he found that he couldn’t bring himself to care, at the moment.

She closed the folder then, seemingly satisfied, and nodded at him in goodbye, turning to the door. Cullen watched her go, anxious to dissect their conversation, to figure out how to deal with her, with himself.

“Commander?” she asked, then, over the screech of the door’s knobs. The battlements were being lit up by the junior recruits; the light of the torches swayed inside the room, halting to greet Lavellan’s profile.

“Inquisitor?” he asked back automatically.

“Despite all, I … appreciate the concern,” Lavellan said, without turning back. Then the door closed, and Cullen was cast into dim solitude once more. The afternoon outside was coming to an end, the dusk enveloping the castle, but it was the warmest he’d felt all day.


	3. Inquisitor, Pt. II

In the end, he found himself in the tavern, grudgingly sharing a pint with Hawke. It was a slow night, though that didn’t surprise him. The Inquisitor was, after all, departing at dawn. Anyone with half a mind would be sleeping early.

Which was why Cullen knew Hawke's invitation had been genuine.

"You're not concerned about the – indisposition you might feel tomorrow morning, then?"

"I'm here drinking, aren't I?" she replied, clinking her glass with his. She was starting to get tipsy, judging by the width of her grin. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd changed, like he had. It wasn’t as if he really knew her; not like Varric did. "Besides, it’s been a while since the last time I just relaxed and got piss drunk. I’ll take my victories where I can.”

 _Of course_ , Cullen thought, lip curling despite himself; he’d heard Leliana bemoaning about Hawke and Varric’s extended stay at the tavern. It bothered him a little - Hawke was supposed to be here on business after all – but when he placed himself in her position, the irritation vanished.

He was too permissive when it came to Hawke. He was too permissive towards too many people, he was starting to realize.

“A woman of simple tastes,” was what he replied, half-smirking, the foam at his lip begging for a lick. Hawke watched his tongue with a voracious grin, and he felt himself heat under her gaze. He shifted his own towards the bottles decorating the walls.

“A woman who knows better than not to enjoy the moment, you mean.” They brought their glasses up at the same time. She clinked hers with his before he set it down. “But getting you drunk isn’t the only reason I dragged you here.”

“Oh?” he quipped back, amused.

“The Seeker—whatshername, Cassandra—she had a chat with me,” Hawke said, smothering a hiccup. “Good woman,” she added, nodding. “A little pent-up, though, don’t you think? I tried getting Varric to butter her up, but lemme tell you, that dwarf can weasel out of everything.”

Cullen couldn’t imagine _anyone_ buttering up Cassandra, least of all Varric. He kept a straight face, hand tight around the glass – and around his sanity, lest it decide to leave. It was harder than previously expected.

“Er, right,” he managed.

“Not the point, though,” Hawke said, waving a hand. “Anyway, Cassandra – well, she made it clear you’re not the only one who,” then she did air quotes, her eyes rolling, “duly respects the Inquisitor’s position.”

“The issue being what, exactly?” he replied, taking a sip of his beer at the same time he relaxed his shoulders. “Isn’t it obvious the Inquisition would respect its leader?”

 _“_ The issue being that I haven’t seen what the fuss is all about. And, well, considering I’m about to put my life on the line for your Inquisition …” She downed the rest of her ale with a loud swallow, slammed the mug with a winning grin. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“I can’t say that I do,” he answered smoothly.

Hawke sighed, leaning against the counter with an elbow. The stool she was sitting on was starting to tip.

“What’s the deal with the way she acts, Cullen?”

Now she’d lost him.

“With the—?”

“Oh, you _know_ ; the flawless accent, the literacy, and – and that whole indifferent act she’s got going on,” Hawke groaned, frowning. “ _Is_ she really a prisoner? Are the rumors true, Cullen? Is that why she’s always ready to lash out?”

 _Yes_ , he thought, remembering Sera’s drunken words. They’d been sitting in the exact same spot.

“Of course not,” he answered, taking care to dip his voice in impatience. It was too easy to do so; he was getting used to defending Lavellan's so-called freedom. “The Inquisitor is—“

“I wasn’t asking about the Inquisitor,” Hawke cut in, merciless, the energy inside her sharpening and the amusement erased. “I’m asking about Lavellan. You were a Templar, you _must_ know what she feels like all the _fucking_ time, Cullen—”

“The Inquisitor just hasn’t found her place here yet,” a voice called, from the doorway. Cullen went taut, but Hawke was smirking and lifting a glass.

“Varric,” Cullen greeted dryly, setting a hand against his heart.

Despite all, he was thankful for the interruption, because of _course_ he could feel the mana inside Lavellan’s body, a constant curl of tension, a coiled spring. He didn’t take the lyrium anymore but he’d been a Templar for years, for _years,_ and of course Lavellan would burn like the touch of lightning.

Hawke had looked away from him when Varric had joined them; now her eyes returned to Cullen’s, icy and accusing, but also burning with questions. He pretended not to notice, and turned towards Varric instead.

“Commander Cullen,” the rogue replied graciously, taking a mock bow and sitting by Hawke’s side. “What a surprise to see you here!”

“I’ve been … coerced into taking a break, yes.”

Hawke and Varric traded a high-five; she laughed into her glass when Varric signaled Cabot.

“And why are _you_ complaining about the Inquisitor again?" Varric said, facing Hawke. "She’s doing a great job.”

“You just say that ‘cause you’re on her side,” she went on, elbowing Varric on the ribs. A gesture that held far more fondness than it should’ve; Cullen felt compelled to look away, feeling intrusive. Hawke’s expression soured, then: “Also, I was under the impression _someone_ was too hungover to come meet me?”

“First off: what, we’re taking sides now?” Varric tasted the ale with an airy expression, after a disdainful sniff. “Also, my dear Hawke, it appears that _someone_ has recovered gracefully and has walked _all this way_ to meet you before you leave, so don't push.”

There was a beat; Varric leaned over the counter, his barstool tipping so much Cullen actually tensed.

“And this ale tastes dustier than Andraste’s knickers!” he called. “Cabot, my good man, have you given up on us?”

“The two of you emptied out the quality caskets,” Cabot said, without raising either gaze or voice. Hawke looked impressed with herself, eyebrows climbing up her forehead. “Restocks are on the way, or so they tell me.”

“Is this true, Varric?” Cullen asked, frowning in reply. “I assume you would _not_ be partaking in such follies if you were accompanying the Inquisitor tomorrow?”

“You’d be certainly correct, Commander—”

“The Seeker was right,” Hawke scoffed, eyes rolling, “you _are_ a liar and a snake.”

“Not in front of the Commander, Hawke,” Varric let out, through a thin smile. Then he grinned, a thing full of mirth. “I might be a little creative with my words, from time to time – but at least _I_ won’t be traveling with a gigantic hangover.”

It was like watching two lifelong friends meeting together after a long time.

It _was_ , Cullen realized then, feeling the slightest bit stupid; but couldn’t be bothered with feeling like a third wheel. They were nice enough company, and it had been a while since he had talked to anyone who wasn’t under his direct command. Josephine and Leliana were fine, he supposed, but sometimes he grew tired of debates, of strategy, of the Inquisition. 

Sometimes he just wanted to be an unnamed soldier, drinking with comrades who weren’t afraid of speaking their minds – even if he would feel guilty over it later.

“I will regret, I admit; but only when the time comes," Hawke was saying.

Cullen blinked, slightly taken aback. Then he snorted under his breath, and took a gulp of beer. _When the time comes_ , he thought, amused.

“And you _are_ on her side, don’t try to change the subject.” Then she batted her eyelashes, mimicked fainting, and her short hair flew back dramatically, though there was no wind that Cullen could feel: “Oh, Varric, you have _such_ a weakness for mages! Should I be flattered?”

“I still don’t understand why you think she’s a prisoner,” Varric groaned, rolling his eyes. The amusement was definitely pulling at his mouth, though, twitching the left corner in a way Cullen hadn’t expected to recognize.

Maker, he really was spending too much time in this bloody tavern.

“Look, I’m not saying that being the Inquisitor is easy—“

“You aren’t saying anything at _all_ ,” Hawke cut in, elbowing him again and frowning. “Why’d you think you can spin your empty tales at _me_ , of all people? It hasn’t been so long that I’ve forgotten how you work, dwarf.”

Varric grumbled empty words at her, and took a loud gulp of his ale, making a face at the end. Cullen followed his lead, and pretended to miss the look the two of them shared while he drank. It was a quick, subtle thing, culminating in his direction. He wanted to delve deeper, ask them the reason, but his instincts spoke louder. He fled.

“Do you two always meet like this?” Cullen asked between chuckles, as he set the glass down.

“Yes,” Varric replied, the amusement in his voice fighting the grumpiness.

“There are usually more dead bodies,” Hawke commented, as one usually did on the weather. Cullen knew she was stating the absolute truth. “It’s been a while since we’ve met under such … peaceful circumstances.”

“Yeah, we hadn’t gotten this drunk since Kirkwall—” Varric said, and then his smile froze, his eyes went faraway. Cullen was suddenly glad he’d decided to forego his armor, or his grip on the glass would’ve resulted in a telling screech. Varric cleared his throat, brought his drink up: “I’d like to believe things are looking up, though!”

 _Right_ , Cullen thought, looking into his beer, _it’s not as if Thedas is in the middle of a war, or anything._ But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Neither Hawke nor Varric needed that reminder. Cullen didn’t need it either, but he found himself thinking it anyway.

He brought the glass to his lips, drank without restraint, and delayed work until the following day. The midday sun eventually found him, hungover and tired, but Cullen couldn’t help but to feel the slightest bit satisfied. It was only after noticing that Cassandra’s spot by the dummies was empty that Cullen realized: he hadn’t seen the Inquisitor’s entourage off.

The guilt – a wound up knot in the pit of his stomach that lasted for days after that – made him feel sicker than the hangover.

* * *

"The Sky Watcher," Cullen read, narrowing his eyes at the report. He had woken up not long ago, after having fallen asleep at his desk, and was still feeling a tad grouchy. He set the file down and pinched his nose; a vain attempt to make sure he wasn’t still asleep. “An Avvar shaman. The Inquisitor recruited an Avvar shaman.”

Like the all the bloody mages weren’t enough.

"Yes. The Sky Watcher. An Avvar shaman," Josephine countered, with the patient tone she usually reserved for uppity nobles. Cullen frowned at her, and she frowned right back, though it was less accusing. "Commander, he will be one of _my_ contacts; as such, you needn’t concern yourself at all."

He still frowned, picking up the scroll again and skimming the rest. Lavellan's ankle had been pierced by an arrow, and Cassandra had broken a shield, along with a few fingers, but the Iron Bull and the boy—Maker, what was his name—Cole had not suffered any sizeable injuries. It was going to take them at least one week to get back to Skyhold, but at least the worst part of the mission had been dealt with.

Meanwhile, Josephine sighed, cocking her head and resting her board against her chest.

"Just because you wish to save face doesn't mean you need to discredit every one of the Inquisitor's victories, Commander. The Fallow Mire is a diseased mess of a swamp, crawling with those _vile_ undead creatures," she shuddered, and Cullen had to suppress a smile, " _but_ the Inquisitor has returned with a rescued team, a new agent, and Grey Warden artifacts."

"Ouch, Josie," quipped Leliana, smirking. It could've almost been a smile, but the curve was too sharp. Josephine looked alarmed, as she turned towards him.

"I did not mean to – " she started.

"No, Ambassador; you are quite right," Cullen said, placating her. His voice was clear and curt, but he knew she was right. "I admit defeat. Our losses were nonexistent. It seems my fears were … unfounded."

Then he frowned at the report once more, pretending to miss how both women glanced at each other.

Why did people always think he had no peripheral vision? He was a warrior, for the love of the Maker! Of course he would notice the concerned looks everyone kept sending in his direction. Of course he felt wound up tighter than a yarn ball.

"You have been very irritable these past few weeks," Leliana said tonelessly, moving a few stone pieces around the map.

Cullen resisted the urge to scoff. The withdrawal had a modicum of control over his emotions, though it was more pronounced whenever Cassandra wasn’t around. It wasn't as if she could do more than to lend a kind ear, but that was more than enough. Sometimes, all he needed was her strong voice telling him he didn't _need_ the lyrium, that he was giving the Inquisition _enough_.

It had been a while since the last assurance.

"Can you truly blame me?" Cullen sighed, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. "I greatly dislike not knowing the Inquisitor's movements, as you are well aware—or should be, by now. I've also been having trouble with putting the newest recruits to work, since the Inquisitor isn't the one signing the papers, and I simply cannot find tasks for all of them. Then, the forces assigned to Val Royeaux are _still_ treated with suspicion by the City Guard, despite all we've done to help Orlais and the capital itself. And don’t even get me started on the rumors that people are disappearing in Emprise du Lion … What?”

He went quiet, feeling his neck heat; the two women were gawking at him.

"Commander," Josephine said, eyebrows gathering above pools of concern, "just how overworked _are_ you? When was the last time you had a moment to yourself?"

"There was that night at the tavern," he countered, after a few seconds of thought.

"That was _weeks_ ago," Leliana gasped, looking up from the map. She was surprised enough not to hide it, and he almost winced. It was never a good sign when Leliana showed her emotions on her face. “Are you saying you haven’t taken a break since then?”

“I – no, of course not, I—“ he prolonged it, thinking, “—went for a drink with Hawke as well—“

“That was _also_ weeks ago,” Leliana cut in, frowning and crossing her arms. Under her gaze, he wilted, sighed, and then leant against the war table.

“Well, there is _always_ work to be done, Leliana.” This time, he couldn’t keep the irritation off his voice. “Do you expect me to postpone it simply because I am a little worn out?”

“This is a job, Cullen – an important one, no doubt, and one that must be taken as seriously as you take it. But it’s not a duty you must hold above your health. You are no longer a Templar; there is no one who expects you to suffer in silence. The Inquisition is _different_ from the Chantry.”

She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself. Between them, Josephine looked like an anxious referee. She wasn’t as ruthless as Leliana, and didn’t know him as well as Cassandra – but she always remained, even if only to moderate their arguments. He was thankful for it, and wondered if she knew.

“I am not _suffering_ in _silence_ ,” he returned, rolling his eyes. “There will be plenty time to rest after Corypheus has been defeated. I will admit to _sometimes_ mishandling my workload, but don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”

“I wasn’t the one who was spotted having a shouting match with a disgruntled mage,” Leliana shot back. Cullen’s shoulders stiffened, but Leliana went on, smoothing over the wrinkle she’d so willingly created. “I know you meant well, but you know what it looks like to the rest of the army. You must know.”

“He’d been needling the Templars for weeks, Leliana. I grew tired of his … tomfooleries.”

“I would be a poor spymaster if I wasn’t aware, Commander. Such a hot shade of pink is hard to miss, especially when worn by an entire platoon of angry Templars,” she said, though gentler this time. “But that issue was resolved as quickly as it was started, and it was up to the Grand Enchanter to talk to him, not you.”

“Are you saying I overstepped myself?” he asked, hiking his chin at her.

 _Yes_ , said Leliana's narrowed eyes, but she couldn’t vocalize it in time.

“I do not think that is what our spymaster truly meant,” Josephine cut in, surprising both of them. Leliana frowned, and Josephine lost her edge, smiling sheepishly. “You _are_ our Commander – you have the authority to reproach whoever you believe deserves it.” Then her expression hardened, her eyes glinting. “There is something you must do, however, and that is to make _sure_ your that your reprimands are righteous.”

“I …yes. You’re not far off, Ambassador,” Leliana said, crossing her arms. Then, she turned to Cullen: “The mages are not your recruits, nor your charges – they are our allies. And they all think of you,” a nod towards Cullen, “as a Templar, no matter what you might say or do. Your past is still clinging to you—Kirkwall’s consequences _are_ the war surrounding around us. Do not expect them to understand you are a Commander, because all they’ll see is a Templar Knight.” Her gaze was hard, but her voice was even more so. “Do _not_ give them further reason to distrust you, Cullen. Do _not_ let your judgement be clouded because of others’ actions. Do not revert into the man you used to be.”

For a moment, Cullen was back in the tower, looking up and through the glower of the force field. Leliana had been there when they’d found him, concerned eyes and sweet voice, a softness in her that could’ve almost, almost been Amell’s. Then he blinked, and the maps focused under his eyes. Leliana was no longer sweet, and kept mostly to murmurs now, the songs she’d undoubtedly sung clinically placed behind duty and pitiless pragmatism – but it was obvious her principles had remained.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Josephine cleared her throat very insistently. Cullen closed his mouth and – though he hid it well – felt the slightest bit intimidated.

“All this argument of mages and Templars has nothing to do with stress relief, and is in fact detrimental to anyone’s mental health,” she pointed out. “Haven’t we had enough of this conflict already?”

Leliana’s cheeks darkened very, very slightly, and Cullen just knew his ears were the same shade. Josephine, graceful as ever, pretended not to notice.

“Regarding your condition, Commander, I suggest you take a long, hot bath. And,” she flashed him a smile, “if you could bring a glass of wine along, that would be wonderful.”

“Perhaps the whole bottle would be best,” Leliana muttered, looking to the side.

He admitted to himself that relaxing in a warm bath _was_ appealing – the time he would lose to it, less so. Distracted, he brought a hand to his neck again, soothing the tense muscles.

“I will consider it,” Cullen said anyway, nodding slowly.

Josephine frowned at him, skeptic. Leliana narrowed her eyes in thought, and they forgot about the previous tension – or, at the very least, pretended to.

* * *

The forge hissed and crackled, spewing out a smoky burp at the slide of the door. The room smelled of burnt wood and steam, and Cullen had to raise his voice to hear himself above the clangs of metal.

“At ease,” he called, after noticing the salutes. One smith had forgotten to put down his hammer; Cullen had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

“Commander,” the men by the forge greeted, and then relaxed, turning to their duties once more.

Seggrit was frowning at some blueprints, standing by the window closest to the door. He looked annoyed, though this didn’t surprise Cullen.

After Haven, Josephine had offered Lady Sims the position of head merchant (an Orlesian noble held more influence and money than a Fereldan commoner), and Leliana had cornered Seggrit into taking care of armory expenses. It was a harder job, with lesser pay; Seggrit had been livid at the news. In the end, however, he had seemingly decided that serving the Inquisition was still a worthy cause.

“You wanted to discuss something,” Cullen said, straightening his back and attempting to look as though he was in a rush. The blond man looked up, startled, and then relaxed.

“Ah, Commander Cullen! Yes, it is good you are here – now, regarding the splintmail boots you’ve requested for the new recruits,” he started, motioning towards the door. Cullen frowned, but followed, stepping into the light again. “Ser Morris has some objections. The Inquisition’s iron supplies are running low – but consider the following—“

Cullen tried to, he did, but eventually just tuned out. Cassandra nodded at him as he passed, her breathing heavy, her sword neatly buried into a dummy’s chest. Her shield hand was bandaged; he would have to speak to her about it when he had the time. The Inquisitor’s entourage had arrived in the middle of the night, and he hadn’t yet had the chance to ask Cassandra for details on the Mire.

He had, however, a very powerful urge to join her – dealing with merchants was as dull as dealing with nobles, even if it would benefit his troops. He made an effort to listen to Seggrit once more, as they walked inside the quartermaster’s office.

“Ah, um, welcome, Commander,” Ser Morris managed, nodding anxiously at him. Cullen waved his hand dismissively – no matter how many times he talked to Ser Morris, the man seemed to be as nervous as always. Then his expression soured. “Seggrit.”

“Morris,” Seggrit returned, just as dry. “I'm here about the troops’ boots.”

“This again? I’ve told you more than once that the soldiers require iron, at the very least.”

“We can get twice as much leather for the same price!”

“Leather?” Ser Morris gasped. “On the _battlefield_? Our soldiers are warriors, ser, not rogues! Do you know how leather fares against demons? We need a sturdier defense. I want to save lives, not coin.”

“I am not made of gold, quartermaster,” Seggrit returned, jaw tight. Then he thought better of it, narrowing his eyes. “Or iron.”

While this went on, Cullen was starting to suspect he’d been brought here as a tiebreaker.

How could have he been so blind? Josephine was the one who usually dealt with Seggrit. The fact he’d called for the Commander had been suspicious, but he hadn’t thought much of it, since the forge _was_ important to him as well – in a way. He had been expecting a request for soldiers to carry materials, or the like. He had not been expecting to mediate between two grown men. … Was this how Josephine always felt?

Cullen sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. Outside, Cassandra’s sword was sliding into the hay, smacking against the metal of the dummy. His hand found the pommel of his sword, grabbing at first, resting after. The sound of metal – sharp like a bell – made him want to move.

“If we cut corners now, our soldiers will suffer for it later—“

He leant against the wall, staring out the window. The two men had all but forgotten he was there, and he took the chance to breathe easy for a while. Josephine and Leliana had a point, though he was loath to admit it: Cullen would have to take his breaks where he could. If zoning out meant he could have a few minutes to himself, then so be it.

Cassandra smashed the edge of her sword into the armpit of the mannequin. Her style should’ve been clipped, stern. It was not. Cassandra fought with righteous fury, fought with everything she had to offer. Well, no. Today, there _was_ an attempt at control - he had to smother a laugh, wondering if Josephine had complained to the Seeker about expenses.

“I’m not the one cutting corners around here!”

The doll trembled along with the blade; Cassandra let out a loud, stuttering breath. Cullen’s hand gripped at the handle of his sword, wanting to join her. His gauntlets squeaked, but were ultimately ignored. When was the last time he’d trained with someone who could keep up? The last couple of months had seen him busy with incoming recruits, and the Templars could spar amongst themselves. And it wasn’t as if he had time to waste with pretend fighting.

“What _are_ you implying, ser?”

He was close to tapping the glass, just to get the Seeker’s attention, just to distract himself, and then noticed the Inquisitor climbing down the battlement stairs. His hand was quick to fall to his side, his stomach tightening. Lavellan’s right ankle was bound, white like Cassandra’s hand, but he was relieved to see she didn’t need a walking stick. Her steps were soft as ever, though she was unable to hide the delay with which she set her foot down.

“Inquisitor,” came Cassandra’s muffled voice, over the two men arguing, through the crack in the open window.

Cullen took a thoughtless step to the side, into the darkness of the room, and then felt ashamed of himself. It was one thing to overhear, but another to spy. Maker, what was the matter with him?

He didn’t move, regardless.

“I am pleased to see you’ve recovered,” the Seeker went on. Then, bitterly: “At least _someone_ has.”

“Seeker Pentaghast,” the Inquisitor’s voice greeted.

Cullen’s eyes were glued onto the crisscrossing pattern of the windows. He could make out the shade of her hair, dark brown alight in the sun, but little else. If he leaned forward just so –

“I was told that I can begin the tour to Crestwood in a few days. I … surmise from your tone that your injuries haven’t healed properly?”

“They have not,” Cassandra droned. “The healers were certain that it will take me two weeks to properly wield my shield again. That I might _try_ ,” she scoffed, “but that the results would prove unsatisfactory,” she spat the word. The healers were probably right, he thought; Cassandra was a perfectionist when it came to her form.

“Two weeks?” Lavellan asked, voice angling towards surprise. Cullen frowned. "I was under the impression you would accompany me," she added, in a mutter that he almost couldn’t catch.

The Inquisitor had already wasted enough time with the Mire’s rescuing effort. Her next mission would _have_ to be Crestwood—they could delay it no longer. Hawke had never been the most patient person, and, while they'd gallivanted around in the Mire, the Wardens had had the time to put their mysterious plans in motion. He ran a hand through his hair, frantic; he’d assumed Cassandra would be part of the envoy to Crestwood, as it was customary. He’d _assumed_ , Maker, why did he keep on assuming? Hadn't he learned that assumptions would only let him down?

Lavellan _had_ gone on missions without Cassandra, before, but never vital ones – always little things that were easily resolved with words, or a well-placed bolt of lightning. Meeting Hawke’s Grey Warden contact would not be a little thing. Lavellan would need Cassandra there.

Maker’s breath - _Cullen_ would need Cassandra there, too.

“Do you need me to draw you a picture?” someone squawked indignantly behind him, whilst his mind raced. Belatedly, he realized the two men were still arguing. Not so belatedly, he realized he didn’t care.

“Here’s a picture for you, Seggrit: requisition denied. Yes, _again._ I will take iron or better, ser! No less! Take your discounts and find someone who cares."

“Great,” Cullen cut in, addressing them both without looking. “Good – if that matter is settled, then I must go,” he went on, distracted, already halfway out the door. “I’ll – the Inquisitor will see into that—er—iron business for you, Ser Morris. At ease, men,” and he was gone, stepping into the daylight.

“We are honored to serve you, Commander!” Ser Morris exclaimed, as a goodbye, sounding exceedingly pleased with himself. Cullen shut the door behind him, shielding his eyes from the sun, and turned to the side, facing the two women. Lavellan looked surprised to see him, eyebrows raised, eyes blinking, her mouth opening (to greet him?) –

“What did Seggrit want, Commander?” Cassandra cut in, folding her arms gingerly. “He seemed quite … insistent on something,” she grit out.

Cullen’s eyes slid from vivid green to pale hazel.

“Nothing important,” he assured, though he was curious as to why Cassandra had bothered to ask. “Inquisitor,” he greeted, then, turning to look at Lavellan again. They hadn’t talked since their spat (could he call it that?). His fingers were shaking inside their gauntlets, so he closed his hands and folded his arms behind his back. “I’m pleased to see you’re well.”

“Commander,” Lavellan replied, nodding gracefully, like they’d never talked about her race, her magic, his supposed issues with both. “I appreciate the concern,” she echoed, green eyes piercing, and Cullen’s nape grew warm. The rest of him burned a different heat, an apologetic one. He hoped she’d see the smoke signals.

Cassandra’s brow was furrowed; Cullen looked at her before she reached realization.

“I’ve been informed of your injuries, Seeker.”

“Yes,” Cassandra hissed, eyes narrowing. To say she looked displeased would’ve been an understatement. “I expect to be fully recovered in a fortnight, but I will not be able to accompany the Inquisitor until then.”

He feigned concern, twisting his expression appropriately. It didn’t take much effort; he was still feeling out of sorts. Cassandra sighed, a curt, annoyed sound.

“Have you tried approaching the mages for a second opinion?” Lavellan asked, looking up at Cassandra. “There should be more healers here than in the Fallow Mire. I recall meeting a … surgeon, as well,” she added, struggling with the word, the tips of her ears reddening. He let his eyes linger there, his fingers twitching.

“You mean the woman in the yard? The one with an attachment for drilling skulls?” Cassandra replied, unimpressed. “I would rather take my chances with a high dragon.”

Lavellan smiled, then, the blush fading. Cullen’s chest tightened, his hand aching to grip the tension in his neck. He tried thinking of something else.

“Well, there is the Grand Enchanter, although I am not certain—“ he began, reticent.

“Of course,” Cassandra cut in, nodding sternly. “I will go to her at once. If there is anyone capable of finding an adequate healer, it will be her.”

Lavellan was frowning, but she did not object. Did she not agree? Was she just thinking? Cullen had been thinking, too – about how to approach the subject of Crestwood’s mission, how to ask Lavellan if she would be alright without Cassandra by her side. It was harder now that he knew what she thought of him.

“Very well,” Lavellan said, eventually, and the corner of her bottom lip disappeared as she chewed it. “If that is what you think is best.”

The two women shared a look, a nod, and Cullen straightened, readying his goodbye.

“Will you be coming along then, Commander?” Lavellan asked, then, looking up at him.

“I should—what?” he stammered. He had a thousand things to do, he was sure, but he couldn’t think of a single one, Maker take him. “I, er, that is – if you’d wish. I have … work to do, however.”

“I will be summoning the council as soon as I speak to the Grand Enchanter,” Lavellan explained, without a drop of emotion. Cassandra’s expression was twisting again, brow furrowed as her eyes flitted from Cullen to Lavellan. “I assume the conversation won't last long."

“I see,” he replied, and, for all his strategic expertise, was unable to call for a retreat. He went for the next best thing. "Allow me to lead the way, then."

Her replying smile was as thin as the edge of Cassandra’s sword, but pleasant enough that he looked away first, as he walked by. And, though Cassandra's eyes were hot coals dipped into the back of his shirt, he was relieved he could at least keep his face turned away from the two women.

Unexpectedly, the journey turned out to reveal a myriad of glimpses into Lavellan's life, the one she had outside of his field of vision: people flocked to Lavellan like carrier birds flocked to the tower's top floor.

The recruits in the yard took shaky bows when she passed, while the nobles in the hall tried to rope her into shallow conversations. As Commander of the Inquisition, he was familiar with this part, and had to fight off his own admirers as he walked on.

But Varric smiled at her when she entered, asking about her day and wondering if Hawke had gotten bored of Crestwood’s lousy weather yet. Cullen was able to identify the unsure fondness in his expression; not the reason as to why it was there.

But Solas nodded at her when she passed through his study, raising his eyes from a heavy book and greeting her with soft syllables and lost language. Cullen, who had spent his life reading, felt inadequate—illiterate, even—and refused to admit it to himself, offering but a nod as he passed.

But the mage Lavellan had recruited in Redcliffe—the Tevinter one—received the Inquisitor with a measured wave of a hand and a hesitantly charming smirk (and then gave Cullen a look he wasn't sure how to categorize).

Even the Grand Enchanter was startlingly quick to abandon the Tranquil researchers, when Lavellan expressed the need to talk to her.

What spoke loudest, however, was the fact Cassandra looked unsurprised by it all. As if she was used to seeing Lavellan as a social being. Cullen couldn’t wrap his mind around it; she was so far from everyone. How could they act like they knew her? How could they _think_ they knew her?

Or was he the only one who didn’t?

“You must keep in mind that I am not a healer,” Fiona was saying now, fondling her chin. Cullen moved his gaze back to her, abandoning Lavellan’s facial markings. “However, I _have_ been on the field long enough to pick up a few tricks; I could try and speed up the process, or ask one of my fellow mages to do it for me. There are talented spirit healers around who would graciously offer their services, if asked—”

“But?” Cassandra cut in, crossing her arms gingerly. Fiona frowned at her, fondness and annoyance in equal measure.

“… But I understand you’ve already been healed by mages, as well as the Inquisition nurses, Seeker,” she replied, eyes flicking down to glance at Cassandra’s hand. “If time is not of the essence, it would be preferable to wait. Your body’s defenses, on the long run, are superior to any spell. Shattered bones are, how shall we say - tricky things to fix.”

“Time is always of the essence, Grand Enchanter,” Lavellan said, sounding so much like Leliana that Cullen had to glance at her, just to check. Then she narrowed her eyes at the ground, thinking. “But I respect your opinion. If you think it will be best to wait, then I will do so.”

“I’m honored you hold me in such high regard, Inquisitor,” said Fiona, nodding.

“Whereas I am disappointed in myself,” said Cassandra, uncrossing her arms and staring at her bandaged hand. Beside her hip, her right one clenched into a fist. “It is – regrettable, but you cannot wait for my recovery. I will have to stay behind for now, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan eyes tinged with the familiar panic he had grown used to stumbling across. It was brief, as always – a foray into a part of Lavellan he had no maps with which to guide himself. Cassandra seemed to be proficient at this kind of scouting, however, shoulders tensing along with his when she took notice of Lavellan’s expression.

Cullen found himself wishing they weren’t at the Tower, that the Grand Enchanter wasn’t expecting the conversation to continue. He wanted to be there when Cassandra unfolded the Inquisitor’s fears, brought them into the light—if only to defeat them. Now wasn’t the time, and when it came (because someone like Cassandra would make sure it did), Cullen was sure he would no longer be there to listen.

His gauntlets clinked.

“We will see,” the Inquisitor finally said, taking great care to focus on Fiona – had she noticed how intently she was being watched? Cassandra had the eyes of a Seeker, and Cullen, a Templar’s.

He moved his attentions back to the Grand Enchanter, though it was hard to look away. Cassandra did not seem to care whether the Inquisitor knew she was staring or not, and thus went on doing the aforementioned.

… Sometimes, Cullen wished he could be bolder. Ever since their last talk, he felt self-conscious when she was around – even more than usual. What did she think of his manners, his behavior, his being? Did she still think he didn't care for her authority? He couldn’t say. He couldn’t bring himself to ask, either.

“Thank you for your time, Grand Enchanter. I will leave you to your duties.”

“May the Creators guide you, Inquisitor,” Fiona said, and Lavellan’s face changed, the softest of smiles blossoming in the barren blankness of her expression. If mentioning an inkling of her religion was all it took to get her to smile like that –

He looked away once more, over the railing and down the tower. Solas was focusing on his book, back turned to them. As the conversation came to an end, the painted wolves in the walls before him seemed to smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this chapter is a little shorter, and it's late as all hell (sorry!), but real life hasn't been kind towards my dragon age worldbuilding.
> 
> re: fic - does the current chapter length work, or is it too long? is cullen in character? are the rest of them in character? is the pacing too slow? just right? idk about this fic sometimes, so please drop me a line, and thank you for all the kudos!


End file.
